Kings Hide Dragons!
by WhiteGloves
Summary: SHERLOCK puts himself in prison! Now everyone thinks John will step in too! Reign of terror inside the jail ward with all kinds of criminals! Sherlock better be careful inside... or is it the other way around? /friendship/crime/ (title change final)
1. Chapter 1

***Kings Hide Dragons***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 **SHERLOCK!**

 _It's captivating... it's alluring._

 _Characters from a book come to life by the right people._

 _Isn't that just amazing?_

 _John and Sherlock I disclaim. I can't hold a candle to that Sir Doyle~_

 ***Enjoy Reading!***

* * *

The blue eyes met the light greens.

It was not unusual for these two to be on eye to eye level, and especially not unusual for them both to be glaring at each other. Well, perhaps not both were glaring for while the former has this extremely glowering look the latter has nothing but an almost near vacant expression. Indeed, both were so opposite that even a chemistry reaction was unnecessary.

But let us go back to their _glares._

The blue eyed man with light brownish hair was reluctant at first as he kept his eyes at the dark haired man sitting opposite him with contorted eyebrows. He didn't speak. He just sat there with his back leaning at the chair and with arms crossed on his chest as he surveyed the dark haired man who was quietly looking at him. There was no particular meaning behind the dark haired man's light green eyes— just plain _stare._

Silence was intermediate—until suddenly there was a loud thumping sound—a _stool_ chair banging on a steel legged table just across where the two were sitting that made them both look up with a start. There they saw a uniformed policeman returning the stool under the table. When he was gone the two, who were just like wild animals who got startled, eyed each other once again.

And Doctor John Watson cleared his throat finally with eyebrows not lifting from the top of his blue eyes. He shifted on his seat as he averted his eyes around the shadowy vicinity with displeasure so evident on his small face. The dark haired man opposite him who _looked taller_ in his orange suit narrowed his eyes and knew the confrontation was about to come— _finally._

"So..." John started with eyes looking down the space on the table in front of him as put both elbows on it and clasped his hands, "you've finally done it, haven't you?"

He forced his hard eyes back and met those light green eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

The consultant detective tilted his chin a little to survey his former flatmate, before pressing his lips together and quietly saying in the most innocent and slow manner, "Look, John, it's not as obvious as it looks—"

"No, it can't get any obvious—" He shook his head somewhat sardonically.

"—I know what you're thinking—"

"—funny if you don't—"

"—and if you care for me to explain what's clearly so obvious—"

"Oh shut up." The doctor shook his head impatiently and slammed his hands on the table in annoyance, "I don't need obvious! I see it as clear as day! Or do you want me to really _observe_ what's dangling on your hands or your uniform _or_ this damn place?"

Sherlock Holmes gave a short pause as he sighed and unwillingly showed his hands from under the table. By doing so came sounds of metallic clinks in the form of chains. John's already contorted eyebrows deepened even more and the frown lines on his forehead definitely increased as he gestured at his friend and at the clinking sound of _handcuffs._

" _That—"_ He pointed out with levelled eyes, "is _not obvious?"_

Sherlock looked undaunted as he returned the gaze of his friend before looking down at his wrists and then to his orange uniform and then travelled his eyes around the four cornered darkened hall with two police officers standing guard by the doorway. They were inside Brixton Prison, hardly any place for a small chat. Looking up, he found John still glaring at him.

"You didn't think I wouldn't notice did you?" John sounded so sarcastic it nearly made Sherlock smile.

Except that John Watson was not smiling by way of how his jaw was twitching and how livid his expression was for then only one fact was registering on the doctor's mind above all that was the obvious.

That _Sherlock Holmes_ has finally become a _prisoner_.

"Have you gone mad?" the doctor went on, "what are you doing here?"

"I've already explained it to you you're the one not listening."

"Not listening—?Hang on what—? Exactly when did you explain this to me?"

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused as he creased his eyebrows.

"Told you this morning."

 _ **[ Flashback]**_

John Watson was inside a cab heading towards his old flat at 221B when he saw Sherlock Holmes walking on the pavement of Baker Street. Stopping the cab and paying the cabbie, the doctor went out of car just in time to see his friend rummage inside his pockets for his door key.

"Sherlock," he stepped just behind his best friend who glanced at him in surprise.

"John, hi, there you are." He nodded at his friend with a hand still inside his coat, "Where'd you go?"

"Where did I...? I just came... just now?"

"Huh..." the detective gave him a look before turning to the doorknob, "then who was I talking to?"

John blinked several times and understood immediately for it happens frequently—for Sherlock Holmes to be talking to himself in his absence. He was just about to point it out to his former flatmate when he noticed that his friend had frozen and was looking down the ground. Following his eyes, the doctor saw that there stuck under the threshold between the spaces under the door was a piece of paper. Sherlock bent down, picked it up and scanned the content with eyes suddenly flickering.

"Oh." He muttered in mystery.

"What's that?" John stepped closer enough to see beside the shoulder of his friend when the detective suddenly pocketed the paper and whirled towards the street to hail a cab. "Sherlock? Where are you going?"

A cab stopped in front of the detective who instantly opened the door.

"To Scotland Yard." He told the cabbie loud enough for John who was already behind him to hear.

"What? Sherlock, why did something happen? Should I come?"

The dark haired detective was already inside the cab when he turned to the doctor questioningly—no more like—affirming _ly_.

"Not unless you want to go to prison?"

"What?"

"See you later, John!" the door was closed and the cab drove away leaving John staring after it.

 **[ _End of Flashback_ ]**

 _"You didn't tell me anything!"_ John hissed in realisation as he leaned closer the table while Sherlock did the same and the two best mates huddled their heads together to bicker.

"I did—you just weren't listening!"

"I wasn't even there!"

"Hardly my fault."

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, you're losing your humour, John."

"Humour—? Sherlock this is not a laughing matter. You've just put yourself in _jail!"_

A long deep sigh came out of the consultant detective's lips as he straightened and closed his eyes tightly. When he opened his eyes there was that mocking glint that John never misses.

"Really, the firm grasp of the obvious always puts me off."

"Are we going to talk around in circles?" the doctor challenged with one raised eyebrow and a look at his wristwatch, "because honestly I don't have much time, we're not in Baker Street where you can keep on droning and droning in circles about your case—you are in prison which makes this visit very short. Now are you going to tell me or I can just leave through that door right now and wait for you to get yourself out— _which is in a month by the way_ —and—just _what exactly are you in prison for?"_

"Ah, now you're asking the right question." He finally joined his friend on the table again with both hands clasped together, "Then again, _too obvious an answer."_

"Sherlock." A warning tone.

"Fine, but I already told you, I _put_ myself _in._ "

"Greg wouldn't just let you _put_ yourself in—no police will do!"

"Sorry, who? Anyway Lestrade couldn't argue with me when I told him if he doesn't let me in I'll _break inside_ the prison. Not much need for convincing, he bought it immediately. Said he knew I was bound to make a proper crime but he actually looked too pleased about it. That reminds me Geoff looked unconvinced when he asked _me_ if _you_ know what I was doing. I said yes."

"It's Greg, how many times—and _I know nothing of this!"_

"Knew you weren't listening."

"But this is ridiculous!"

"Keep your voice down."

"Oh yes, I'm sure the guards are listening?"

"No, but they might ban you from visiting if you continue hollering at this sacred place."

"Sherlock if you don't start talking what this is all about I swear—!"

"A man found dead under Brixton bridge this morning, not English, not even European. American. Funny how most of them get hit in this country? Police report reveals Thomas Bishop, 38, staying at a hotel with no company. Was shot dead in the head last night with no sign of robbery. That's good enough background, I think?"

"Go on then," John looked patient now though his jaw was still twitching, "what made this case special?"

"Ah." Sherlock clasped both hands on the table again with that lost look veiling his eyes when he usually falls in torpor, "Thomas Bishop back in America, a high-class biochemist, works for the government. Made a quick leave of absence without warning and appeared at the doorstep of England. Sound suspicious already, doesn't it? Makes you want to sniff the air for more, which I did. Walked around the crime scene myself to look for fresh clue till I arrive at his hotel got a good look at his luggage found it all unnecessary so I came back to Baker Street."

John and Sherlock eyed each other again and the latter knew he just had to go on.

"Well, the question falls on what _he does_ that got him likely to get _shot._ Foreigners don't go around other countries for vacation without company and according to his passport this was his first visit. But this is not an accidental visit, no. Foreigners don't usually walk around the dark areas of London without some kind of a guide, no but this one did. And then as expected he was joined shortly by some guy, not foreign—young, most likely someone who knows every streets and roads of the area who basically disappeared right when he got shot."

"How'd you know _all that_?" it was still amazing how, for many years that John had been hanging around Sherlock, this man could find out details so specific and accurate as if he himself was there.

"The luggage, John, only for solo traveller. Plus some help of CCTVs."

"Oh. So whoever killed him escaped away? The murderer was the young guy who was with him?"

"What guy?" Sherlock glanced up and then frowned, "No that was just some bloke he was asking for directions. Most likely he was to meet people who had contacts with him earlier, I didn't find his phone though but he definitely had one by how he acted in front of the camera then there came the shooting thus we've got a stiff."

"Yeah, we got a stiff," John gave him another hard look, "and we've got you here. That hardly explains anything—no, let me guess, the murderer has already been captured and you want to interrogate him with questions which can't be asked inside the interrogation room that's why you fancied entering this domain yourself?"

"Excellent, John you're starting to sound like me; do tell me where you get your deduction prowess?"

"So am _I_ correct?" the doctor pressed on, his patience at its limits as he clutched his fist, "you're after a _murderer_ who is _already_ behind the bars?" he gave his best friend the darkest look he could make.

Sherlock looked incredulously scandalized.

"Don't be ridiculous why would I go after the murderer? The murderer doesn't matter now—"

" _What_ —? Since _when_ did you believe that?"

"Since I decided he is of no importance, no—my visit here is another matter entirely I've not time for the stiff. I've search him already and found everything I needed, no—the question is not why he was murdered anymore but rather for what _end_ he is here in this country."

"Does that mean the murderer is not here in prison?"

"Nope, but I'm sure he's off targeting other individuals out there in merry old London."

"Jesus, Sherlock—!" the sudden raise of his voice made the guard by the door to look over their table and John had to press his lips and lean his head closer to the detained detective again, "A killer is on the loose and you're here bidding your time with useless other criminals! _Have you really gone mad?!"_

"I keep telling you he's of no importance to me— _calm down_ , John!" for John Watson had stood up and shook his head in the air, clearly attracting the guard now."Why won't you just _listen?"_

" _Because you bloody hell won't explain!"_

"I have already, now sit down before you're _put_ together with me and who knows how much good that will do. Don't you see the brilliance of this case?" he added with a grim smile. "I've been worming around the streets looking for proper cases and this comes right at my door. I love it."

"The only brilliant thing I see is it has finally put you down where most people would want you to be."

"No, John, it's the _fact_ that this place is anything but dull."

"Only _you_ can say that." The little man scoffed and with impatience still showing on his gritted teeth and tight jaw, John sat opposite the black haired man again and cleared his throat, his clear blue eyes still hard and angry. It's just quite true for his best friend to be saying such thing... being inside a _prison_ where his _adored_ criminals are in.

"Look, Sherlock, if I'm not needed just tell me okay? I can't hang around all day trying to figure out who you're really after. Just tell me when you're coming out—"

"Hang on, who said I won't need you?"

John raised an eyebrow to Sherlock who looked sincere.

"I need visitors, John. This facade will only work if I get visitors like normal inmates."

"Oh, so you've accepted the fact that you're an inmate. Good for you—"

"—part of a good disguise is to blend in naturally."

"—where have I heard that before?"

"— try visiting our boring 221B—"

"— how can you say that—?"

"—oh you're right—lacklustre time has finally ended—"

"Fine—fine." The doctor raised both palms in surrender as he sighed for the last time that day, "Do what you want. If you can do this on your own then so be it but I am telling Mycroft—goodness knows how much he knows already and is probably enjoying it too."

"Yeah, and you can probably ask him where the murderer is now if you're still so concerned."

John just had to press his eyes closed before opening them again and blinking at his best friend.

"Mycroft _knows_ the murderer?"

"In my brother's context 'murderer' is not be the correct word."

 _"Time's up, sir."_

A guard approached John Watson from behind and was already waiting for him to stand. The doctor glanced at him and then to his friend again. Sherlock was eyeing him confidently and it was that confidence that somehow made the former army doctor stand despite still feeling vex about everything that's been going on.

"You know what you're doing, Sherlock." He pushed his chair back under the table as he prepares to leave; "Now I still don't understand why you're here but with that bloody killer still out there and that letter you got this morning, you better explain everything once it's over."

"You sound upset, why do you sound upset?"

"I'm not upset."

"Lower use of your vocals, timbre, twitching of your nose, highly increased number of blinks and the fact that you haven't taken a step away from your chair tells a lot, doesn't it? Dear John, do you want to enter the jail with me?"

For the first time that day John felt like laughing. He did.

"Shut up, I'm not crazy enough to come after you in prison."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." The detective gave him a wink, "Too bad. I was actually considering recruiting you again but then I thought—Mary will come after me if I did."

"She won't she's busy at home with the baby," John cleared his throat but what magic it was to laugh out loud it felt like a huge load was taken away from his shoulder, "and yeah, I can't afford being away from home."

"Knew you'd say that. But for the record I was about to try."

John shook his head and gave his best friend a nasty smirk before following the officer towards the doorway.

"Behave yourself." He called as he glanced back to find Sherlock still seated by the table with eyes closed and both hands, which were still in cuffs, pressed together like he usually does whenever he was in his thinking state. "Sherlock?"

" _You_ behave _yourself,_ John."

He opened his eyes in time for the doctor to see him smile meaningfully with those meaningful glints in his light green eyes that got John staring until he was ushered to the door and was locked out, leaving the doctor to stare into the door that somewhat felt so heavy and so _wrong._

"Dammit." John whispered as he walked away.

* * *

Minutes later we see John Watson knocking at Inspector Lestrade's quarters who immediately looked up upon recognizing the good doctor's voice.

"Oh, John, come in," the detective stood up with a knowing look on his face, "I was just about to call you—"

He caught a glimpse of John's grave face and gave a defeated sigh.

"Oh... so you don't know about it after all. That Sherlock said you'd know... Now, John before you get angry—"

"Angry? No, I'm not... not really," John did not take the seat offered to him but remained standing as he looked at the inspector, "I mean I _was_ when I first came here and totally didn't understand the reason why _he was allowed_ to be put in jail, know what I mean?"

"Uhuh,"

"But it doesn't matter now I mean it's Sherlock. If he asked for it he must've had a good reason."

"That's kind of how I understood it too," Lestrade shrugged his shoulder absentmindedly that made John pause to stare at him closely. Then came down the doctor's heavy eyebrows—

"But what kind of station would allow an _innocent man_ to detain himself?" there was a sharp edge at the end of his tone that made the inspector sigh and shook his head.

"Knew you were angry—look John, there's never a law that stops people from detaining themselves. Certainly not Sherlock who even threatened to break _into_ prison if I don't let him in, now you know how he is—you know him. Once he's put his mind in the game it's impossible to stop him. So instead of him hurting himself and getting himself into all sorts of trouble then I might as well throw him to prison. Saves me trouble too."

"But he did tell you _why_ though?"

"Didn't he tell you? So that's why... I was wondering why you didn't come to him in prison."

"Even if he _did_ tell me the reason I wouldn't have come with him."

"Ah, glad you still have your mindset then, but Sherlock explicitly said it was of _national importance_ that he had to go to prison. I thought he was joking but he rarely jokes around, that guy. So taking his threat into consideration I threw him to prison. Seemed to enjoy it enough."

"Am I the only one who thinks this is wrong?" the doctor said under his breath just in time to hear the office door opening and a voice behind him saying—

"What? You mean freak being inside prison?"

John turned and saw Agent Donovan smirking by the doorway carrying piles of papers.

"Leave it, Donovan," Greg said and she placed the papers on the side table before leaving with still that winning smile on her face. John had to muster self control before looking up at the inspector again.

"Will this reach the newspapers?"

"Depends on how fast the media people are but it'll definitely take them some time. I'm still holding it."

"And that news about the American who got shot at Brixton? Can I see his file? Sherlock seems to be working on that one when he sent himself to your jail."

If Greg Lestrade knew how to hesitate, he was doing it now. One look at his face told the doctor something was clearly amiss with the topic he chose to bring up.

"Greg?"

"Oh that... sorry John but can't do. The files for that one is already labelled confidential. It was already sent to the higher ups. It's no longer in this division."

"When you say _'higher ups'...?_ " John's eyes narrowed.

* * *

"Mycroft."

The double doors of the office opened and there came in a tall, authoritative man in a perfectly worn suit with tie, clean black shoes and gait of a man demanding respect. John had seen him so often to be in anyway intimidated and just then he wasn't for he was still feeling vexed at being kept at the dark by his own best friend.

Maybe his brother may prove to be some sort of _light._

"John?" the older Holmes greeted him as he surveyed him from head to toe, "Seems like you had quite a morning with going ins and outs of buildings. Do tell me where you and Sherlock get your energy? I still can't seem to entertain the idea of too much _legwork."_ He moved around the room in his long legs and leaned his umbrella on the side of the table before assuming his seat behind the table in the middle of the room. John followed him with his eyes and knew better to believe that this man can't do _legwork._ He seemed a pretty busybody guy himself.

"How's your family?" came the unexpected question.

"Ah, yes, they're fine." John cleared his throat, "I should be asking you the same."

But Mycroft didn't take the bait and merely smiled.

"Ever since your wedding I thought I'd see more of my brother... but as it turns out it seems like I see more of you myself. Now does that tell us something?"

"Uh, I don't know," the doctor shrugged his shoulder, "that maybe it's because your brother has decided to throw himself into prison without giving a proper reason and that the police allowed him so because _it's him._ I don't know if you can get somewhere with that?"

"Did he now?" the older Holmes looked thoughtful for awhile that made John frown.

"You didn't know he sent himself in prison?"

"Of course I do... I just wondered why you aren't."

The doctor gave Mycroft a long look before blinking several times.

"So a lot of people really believed that I'd _follow_ him there?"

"Well..." it was Mycroft's turn to give a short pause, "it's very _unlike_ you not to do so, isn't it?"

At that, John really burst out laughing while Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes and look at the papers on his table.

"Now that your seizure is over I'm assuming you didn't just come here to tell me about how my brother is playing around? You look like you have more to say in your mind?" he looked up in time to see the doctor straighten himself on the chair and hear him clear his throat.

"Uh, yeah... its' about that case Sherlock's got... about an American biochemist. Sherlock said you know the murderer of that man?"

"' _Murderer_ ' is hardly the word."

"Sherlock said you'd say that." A smile was nearly playing at the corner of the doctor's lips.

"He was killed by one of our federal state's agents, John, because that man is a terrorist."

Now that shut John up. Mycroft was already reading through the files on his table as he continued—

"I shouldn't be revealing anything to a civilian... but then again, you aren't _just_ a _civilian,_ am I right, John? That man was carrying a bio weapon undetectable from the moment he arrived at the security airport. We were only able to confirm it when we traced his call to one of the extremist groups we've been monitoring for some time. Then knowing it was a bioweapon the division was ever so careful to tackle him until it came to the point of shooting."

"Why shoot him?"

"He made contact with a civilian in his active moment of threat we see no reason not to shoot. We immediately sent our people to attend to his body but we found nothing on the man."

John was listening intently at this and had straightened up, "You found nothing on him? But wouldn't that make him innocent?"

"Not at all," Mycroft gave him a piercing look as he leaned on his chair, his clear eyes showing that he knows more than what he was saying, "I told you—we traced his calls." And raised a cellular phone from the files on his table.

"That's the man's...?"

Mycroft nodded and dropped the phone on his desk.

"The peculiarity of this case is probably the disappearance of the promised bioweapon... then again since my brother's on the case I get to relax for a bit."

"You mean to say Sherlock knows where the bioweapon is?"

The look Mycroft gave him was one John would never forget.

"Why else would he send himself inside a prison, John?"

* * *

 **~ TO BE CONTINUED~** **  
**

A/N: _to fall in love with the same characters again and again... that's really something._

 _ ***** particulars of their eye colors not so consistent (its hard to identify but I kinda like the idea of green and blue)_

 _* will run for 3 chapters at most ;) Attention **Mark Gatiss! xD**_

 _ **Happy Birthday! Amazing man!**_

 **~Thanks for Reading~**


	2. Chapter 2

***Kings Hide Dragons***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

CHAPTER 2

I'm hyped! When is Season 4 seriously?

 ** _(And yeah, I had to change the title twice. Clues are difficult to let go ;)_**

 ***Enjoy Reading!***

* * *

7:12 a.m.

John laid a coffee mug on top of the kitchen table early that morning with all intention of making himself a cuppa. He was dressed in his comfortable night shirt and long striped pyjamas that Mary bought for him last Christmas. The weather outside was gloomy and the sun could barely touch the ground because of the thick smog but this was not the reason the doctor was spacing out in front of the coffee boiler.

Not at all.

What Mycroft told him yesterday had taken over his mind, pretty much heightened his interest. An American biochemist got taken down by the secret service justified by the fact that he was a terrorist, only to find out that he was in no possession of the expected bioweapon— _an actual deadly chemical weapon that can annihilate the entire population lost in the heart of England!_ And if that wasn't crazy enough, for some bizarre reason Sherlock, his best friend, got himself locked up in prison _by himself_. John couldn't still get over the fact that most people around believe Sherlock should be kept in bars after all that he's done. Then again Sherlock was never as innocent as the typical man going with all those stuff that can found inside 221B...but _still –there's a lost biochemical weapon!_

And then there's Mycroft ready to waltz despite the nation's biggest security threat because he _knows_ Sherlock's on the case. Overconfident Mycroft! _But then_ it's true—even John himself would probably give a sigh a relief knowing that the greatest sleuth is in the case _but then again_... something's still not adding up to this...

That _Sherlock_ is in prison.

 _Inside a prison_! But why the prison? If there was anything John found most worrisome in this case it was Sherlock there in prison! When the country was under this kind of distress Sherlock Holmes put inside the bars should be the last thing the police force should ever do! It was mental that's what it was! _But then_ it was Sherlock who put himself inside there so let's illuminate who really is _MENTAL!_ Sherlock chose to infiltrate the prison ward because he thinks the threat is there? As far as John was concerned there was never a specific clue that could lead any investigation to believe in the prison conclusion. _But then again_ this was Sherlock he was talking about. That man could see the most conclusive thing out of a match box the others could not.

So that's why he was inside the _prison._

John made a sound in between a chuckle and a sigh as his mid settled the matter because there's only one summary for this all: something was bound to happen... _and it will happen to wherever Sherlock was._

The thought made him close his eyes.

"John?"

The doctor opened his eyes and turned behind him upon hearing his wife's voice. He found Mary in her nighty standing by the kitchen threshold with a quizzical look on her face.

"What?" he barely whispered.

"You're doing that again? You know... standing a lot... spacing out?"

John blinked and looked at the wall clock.

7:35 a.m. How fast time flies.

Minutes later Mr. And Mrs. Watson were found seated together by the couch with Mary holding a mug of coffee with both hands and her legs resting on her husband's thighs while John leaned on the couch with a blank look on his face. The husband and wife shared a few minutes silence with Mary looking at him quietly till John broke silence himself.

"Sherlock's in prison." He started absentmindedly.

"Yeah, you told me last night." She nodded.

"He _put_ himself _in_."

"Yeah, I know."

"And they allowed him."

"They're bound to, he did threaten them."

John shook his head in disbelief and turned his confused eyes on his wife.

"The biochemical weapon's in prison, that's got to be his only reason. But why would it be there? Who brought it there? Wouldn't it be logical to set it out in public?"

Mary considered this for awhile, "It is logical to set it out in public but more logical to set it out in Buckingham palace or the Parliament—"

"See—?"

"—unless they're really targeting those two places and it just got lost along the way. Then Sherlock must've found out that whoever has it got sent to prison that's why he's after it."

"—yeah but he could just pull the guy out! Why bother enter jail himself?"

"There's still the possibility the BW—"

"BW?" he raised his eyebrows but she shrugged him off. He was reminded again how knowledgeable she was when it comes to those sorts of things.

"You know what I mean, John, you were in military— no I mean there's a chance the weapon might be set off deliberately or accidentally. We don't want that to happen. Did they tell you what kind of agent it was? Aerosol? Contamination?"

"No, Mycroft didn't say anything. I didn't get the specifics 'cause either he won't tell or he just doesn't know. Wherever it is, it's got to be found. Imagine street kids kicking it thinking it's just a can?"

"Could be worst—"

"Or Sherlock actually has it now—"

"—he better—"

"—but there's also a chance it's not in prison right?"

"Oh, so you think Sherlock's wrong?"

"No, I just thought for a passing he just wants to enter there. For _experience_." John was serious when he said that because it was in Sherlock's nature to be _experimental_ be it of people's living body or even _biochemical weapon._ Mary was right—there's a _worst case scenario._ The two then caught each other's eyes and burst out laughing and chuckling at the thought.

"No, seriously this is a _national crisis,_ for Christ's sake." The doctor threw his back on the chair and shook his head.

"Uhuh—"

"And Sherlock knows what he's doing when it's a case—"

"—when it is a case—"

"So we can be assured he's on the right track."

"—uhum."

There was a long pause right after but then John felt Mary's long gaze and had to look at her questioningly.

"What?"

Mary shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her palms on her coffee mug.

"It's okay." She said.

"What's 'okay'?" the doctor gave his full attention on her because she wasn't making any sense.

"You. Go check him out. What are you still doing here? It's fine, I can handle the baby." she was half smiling this time and John's eyebrows both rose up to heaven as he understood her meaning.

" _You_ think I'd be crazy enough to go after him?"

"No—I think it's normal enough for you to be staying here but you know you. Now just be careful—having a track record like that—"

"Wha— _n_ o— _I'm not going to prison_." The absurdity of the thought was making John laugh again as he faced her with a ridiculous expression, "Where do you guys get that bloody idea? Why do you guys believe that just because Sherlock jumps in a wagon I'd join him suit? Like his bloody _shadow._ "

"Oh come on, John, that's hardly a question." She put the mug down but then had to sigh in exasperation at the expression on the doctor's face, "He's your _best friend_! Of course you'd go after him—"

"—do best friends go to prison together?"

"—I didn't say anything particular about going to prison but it's you and Sherlock, not just any ordinary best friends—"

"—Oh yeah? He's my best friend and he's not even asking for my help." He said it under his breath with eyes avoiding that of his wife followed by a congruent clearing of throat so quickly but Mrs. Watson's ears were sharp.

"Ohh..." she stared at him with mouth half open, "so that's what it was?"

John's eyebrows creased. "What's that supposed to mean _? And why are you smiling like that_?"

"Oh, _John_." There was this tone in her voice the good doctor suddenly found annoying.

 _"What?"_

"You're so cute. I absolutely adore you."

"What in the blazes? Mary— _why are you smiling?—_ stop that! That's it—" he shot up from the couch, leaving her giggling.

"Where are you going?" she asked in between her fits as she put her legs down the floor as her husband disappeared to their room, "John?"

"I'm going to take a shower. I'm going to _work. Not_ at Sherlock's."

"You can't bring your hand gun!"

 _"I won't!"_

* * *

John Watson found himself standing under Brixton Bridge hours later wearing his usual dark jacket and blue pants. For the record though, he didn't bring his hand gun as he was only planning to _look around._

Now, looking around wasn't making much a point without Sherlock. John tried to do his friend's methods but it wasn't working for him. There was nothing unusual on the ground, not even the trace of blood was there. He looked from left to right, from the nearest trash bin to bushes on the ground hoping to see some sort of bottle or the kind. But then what was he expecting to find when Mycroft's men and even Sherlock himself was done sniffing around?

But more importantly... _what was he doing there?_

John pushed the question at the back of his mind as he started working.

It took him another half an hour to convince himself that everything's been cleared out before he looked up at the nearest buildings. Whoever shot the American must've been stationed up high into one of those buildings. John gave the bridge a look and erased the assumption that the assailant took the shot from there but then again why was the American heading that way?

Walking around, the doctor's mind was still preoccupied as he tried to follow the steps of the terrorist. According to Mycroft last night the man was supposedly in the act of giving the BW to his contact inside the country. The secret service monitored him while tracing his call and would have captured him until the guy made _contact_ with a civilian.

John frowned.

 _Civilian?_

Sherlock did say there was a bloke the Bishop guy asked for directions. How did Sherlock _know_ the American was asking for directions? Isn't it possible the bloke himself was the contact of the terrorist? Who was that civilian guy?

John paused in sudden realisation with eyes flickering in understanding. It was one of those light bulb moments he would experience whenever a dawning comprehension would struck him. He needs to find out who that bloke was. Why didn't he think of it before?

"Dammit, Sherlock." He muttered with a little smile as he turned and ran toward the side of the road to hail a cab. With something to go on, a newly found determination absorbed the doctor. He needs to find out who the guy was and there's only one place he can find that. He told the cab to bring him to the area's local security network.

Only to give a defeated sigh once the officer in charge of the CCTVs of the area told him the video has been confiscated by the _higher ups._

John closed his eyes.

"Dammit, Mycroft."

* * *

Which put back the good doctor inside his office in his white coat with his fingers drumming on his table impatiently. He had spent the next hours scanning the newspapers that day and found little article about the dead man under the bridge. The media named and identified him correctly as what Sherlock said except the fact that he was a terrorist carrying a deadly weapon which was still _missing_ in the middle of London. Sheer mass panic would happen of course so maybe it was better to keep people in the dark. Bliss. Somehow, John understood Sherlock's dramatic quotations about envying other people's 'placid' minds. His friend probably meant ' _trouble-less'_ mind.

Therefore _ignorant._

Shaking his head, the doctor put a finger on his chin thoughtfully. He had planned to check out the hotel their terrorist was staying except that he knew he'll find nothing there anymore. Mycroft would have made sure of that. Sherlock had gotten ahead of them for sure but _then again for the nth time..._ Sherlock's still in prison.

John sighed. He reached a hand on his hair and grabbed the nearest fountain pen. He spent a few moments staring at the blank sheet of paper on his desk before raising his eyes to the computer screen with the documents of all his patients and their diagnosis so far...

If that bioweapon was ever released in the state, more people would definitely be coming down to hospitals... or maybe even _morgues._ John's eyes hardened. He looked at his clock and saw it was five past three. His jaw tightened. Sherlock had spent a whole 24 hour in detainment and there was no phone call from Lestrade. That can only suggest the prison survived _with him inside._ Now that was remarkable.

The words hadn't even finished registering in his thoughts when his phone rang and there he found _Lestrade's_ name ringing him. Quickly answering the phone, John sat up straight to hear the urgency in the inspector's voice.

" _John—you wouldn't believe it—"_ the voice was somewhat _angry._

"Greg, yes? What? Is it Sherlock?"

" _Yeah, I was out of the office investigating this dead body near Thames when I came back here and found out Sherlock's gone!"_

John shot out of his chair. "What do you mean gone? He _escaped?_ "

" _That's my initial guess but no, they already brought him to Whitemoor prison—"_

"W-Whitemoor? _Jesus why?"_ John's mind could not register anything more outrageous as he heard this. Whitemoor prison is basically a cell for highly dangerous criminal around the land!

" _I dunno—he created disturbance this morning—"_

 _"_ Like that's enough to send him to that bloody prison! That's for class A criminals!"

 _"Yeah, a lot of the jail guards made a lot of fuss—you wouldn't believe what he did! He raised an alarm for a bomb when there's actually nothing! Then papers came from the higher ups to send him to Whitemoor— he's been sentenced 6 years to serve—"_

 _"_ Six years?!" his voice rising, the doctor suddenly caught on and his eyes glinted, " _Hang on—_ did you say _higher ups_?"

 _"Yeah, I know—listen John I dunno if he's brother's behind any of this—"_

"Oh, of course he is." The doctor gritted his teeth as if it as enough explanation. He was already removing his white coat as he moved about the room to reach for his black jacket and kept on, "How many _higher ups_ does England have?"

 _"If that's the case I can't really raise any questions with this—no trials an all— but the press don't know any of this—"_

"I don't think they meant for you to raise questions, Greg. Just exactly what time did they take him?" he was already outside the door and giving signals to his assistant nurse, Mary Jane, before dashing out of the building in quick strides.

" _Past noontime. I was able to have a chat with him this morning. He was complaining about you not visiting—"_

"Yeah, like I'll be kept in a prison when things are going on—"

 _"What's that? What things?"_

"Nothing, never mind. Anything else he said?"

" _Huh, uh yeah he said when you come and visit next time you should bring Cluedo."_

* * *

It was one of those _rare_ moments when John was actually wishing Mycroft's dark limousine to come around and get him off the streets. Unfortunately the oldest Holmes didn't think so as the doctor had to hail a cab to bring him to his office—a place he had considered a specific location to find the _man behind the government. The Higher Up._

"Mycroft?" he called once allowed entry. The security personnel in the vicinity never regarded him as a threat no. They recognized him well to be a _special guest_ under Mycroft's own advice so waltzing in and out of the building was easy peasy. Amusing, yeah, but John has had this notion that whenever he goes there, everyone had this mentality that it is of _national crisis_. Well, they were _correct._

His feet brought him to right place without even having to think of it for his body knows already. He didn't have to knock either for the office door was wide open and from the inside he could see the very man he was looking for seated by the office, like the last time where he left him.

"What's that about?" John immediately asked as he stopped in front of the man's table, "Why'd you send your brother to Whitemoor prison?"

"John, don't act like you don't know." Mycroft Holmes said without raising his eyes from the papers he was reading but then—suddenly he did and there was a sceptical look behind his raised eyebrow, " _Or really... you don't?_ "

"I've never been out of clues in my life." the doctor breathed with a note of sarcasm that made Mycroft smirk.

"It's all Sherlock's plan John... you haven't visited him." It was a statement.

"From Whitemoor prison, how could I?"

"Ah... I think you'll find the place easy enough to penetrate."

"But that's _Whitemoor—"_ John nearly bit his tongue as he stopped himself from speaking with the way Mycroft's expression turned and he knew he was saying the wrong thing to the right person. How could he forget who he was talking to? The guy who actually got them inside _Buckingham Palace_ , what is Whitemoor Prison in comparison?

"You look so stress, John." The tall man finally said as he leaned back on his chair to have a better look at the doctor, "not much sleep, probably around two in the morning. Anxiety just right behind the eyes—"

"You _would_ be if you know there's an unknown killer in the air—"

"Oh yes, privilege of a civilian who has access to top secrets of the country, truly dark. But that's never really something that can get you all fidgety, is it? Since when have you fretted under such circumstance, that's not you, John. No John—" he added when the doctor opened his mouth to protest, "It's not simply this problem that got you all worked out. Signs of agitation, so obvious but your stress doesn't come from worry—no it comes from being... let me find the right word... _uninvolved_."

John gave him the stare. Mycroft smiled.

"Am I wrong?"

The doctor pressed his lips closed as his eyes fell on the table. There sure was no arguing with the older Holmes. So much different than the _younger_ version.

"Why don't you just tell me why _he_ sent himself to Whitemoor?"

"I could tell you everything but I don't want to rob Sherlock of his credits—"

" _Oh please!"_

 _"_ If you're so curious, why don't you ask him personally?"

Mycroft does have the tendency to beat around the bush sometimes. And sometimes John does have that nagging feeling of beating him too, except that he's too smart to do so. This is Mycroft after all.

"I did my own investigation..." he started again after a long silence with a newly found patience. He looked up at the man, "But you've gotten most of the pieces already so I realise there's no actual point... and seems like you're in no mood to go into detail but just tell me this—does this mean the _weapon_ we've been searching for is _inside_ _Whitemoor_ already?"

The older Holmes straightened from his chair and put both elbows on his table with his glinting eyes focused on the doctor.

"You know my brother's methods, John. He's the biggest conclusive _clue_ there ever is."

Taking his word, the doctor manage to give a slight nod before turning around wanting nothing but to leave behind this decisive man and his decisive words that all were shouting one meaning—

 _Get to Sherlock._

"Transparent." The doctor muttered softly as he opened and closed his palms on the way out of the office. He had waited far too long in his own way. He could feel his left hand shaking again. That was never a good sign. "I need your limo tomorrow." he said loud enough for the person inside the office to hear.

"Where are you headed, doctor?" Mycroft's voice need not shout. He speaks loud enough.

" _Baker Street."_

* * *

The travel was nothing with a limo the next morning for the doctor. It drove him to March town in Cambridgeshire where HMP Whitemoor is found. Mycroft called and suggested a helicopter but John knew better than to make an entrance to a maximum security place.

Upon sighting the building, John could not help but sigh. Upon entering the building, the doctor now could not help closing his eyes and shaking his head a little. In the span of 48 hours at most he had visited two of the biggest prisons in England... with one being on the top mark highest security prison. So much worst could still happen.

He was given a pass from the Visitors' Centre, staffed by the Prison Service situated adjacent to the visitors' car park where the limo drop him. The chief warden gave him a query look upon him passing for John knows that before visiting Whitemoor, one must submit a 24 hours prebooking visit. For him to suddenly appear there... but then for whatever power Mycroft's got he was given ample minutes to see Sherlock. John did not have to wait long for the police service to nod to one of the tall guards to accompany him without question. Mycroft is impressive.

The inside of the building itself was wide with the walls obviously thick and secured; full security people were on guard on every turn and each corner has CCTV. Even the sky itself was covered with long metals either to stop the inmates from flying up... or maybe stopping them from pushing another from the top floor flying down. There was nothing on the way, no object to be seen. The pathway was almost empty it was like walking in a newly established building. There were less people as he went on too that made John almost feel like he was alone... but that wasn't quite true for he was sure... in every corner, every door that he could see sealed... dozens of people both inmates and police alike are waiting, it was like an ambush.

And then he was lead to a large hall, where unlike the last one he visited, the metallic bench and tables were _immovable._ That explains a lot. The guard left him on one corner and John cleared his throat as he observed the table and sat down. Putting both hands together, he scanned the room and felt nothing. It was too _secured._

And then Sherlock came. The same, tall dark haired man that John had seen two days ago.

Except that—he was _beaten._

When John's eyes fell on him he could not help but take an intake of breath and clasp his hand together with eyes levelling. There was Sherlock, looking at him as he walked closer with hands bound tight by his handcuffs, his eyes as sharp and alive as ever but with bruised cheeks and mark of a bleeding lip. John shook his head once the detective was already safely seated across him with his escort leaving him.

"Hello, John, fancy meeting you here. I'm counting your visits."

"Fancy seeing you still in one piece. What the hell happened to you? Why are you all bruised?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he pressed his handcuffed hands on the table and intertwined them closer.

"Well, apparently some of the people here think I'm some kind of a necromancer when I told them my room has every sign of murder of the last person to use it plus exact detail of the late man's hobbies. Apparently also they don't want me pointing out all their history of cases to one another when I thought most criminals are bound to be proud of their deeds."

" _Jesus,_ Sherlock!" the doctor could not help but pressing his eyes together and slapping his right palm on the table with force, "I told you to behave yourself! You do not do that smart-arse thing here—not in this place! That will get you killed! Are you listening?"

"I'm only pointing out the obvious." He did not bat an eye.

" _Point out the obvious_ and they'll be pointing something different to _you!"_ John put his palms on his face next and tried all means to calm himself. He knew it was not gonna work out. Putting this man in jail, to this place, it was bound to happen. When he looked up next, he found Sherlock looking at him curiously.

"You haven't slept, you look anxious. Something good going on outside?" he eyes almost as if... twinkling. It made John smile in disbelief and almost automatically his fury disappeared.

"It's not the outside that's getting me bit irritated Sherlock, it's what's happening _inside!_ You better stop your mouth and stop being a smart aleck with those other criminals here you got that— _do you get that_? This is not a joke, for goodness sake we're talking about your personal safety!"

"Ah, personal safety..." the detective narrowed his eyes, "what difference does it make living outside these walls?"

"No, they're different—this one's got the most gut wrenching criminals in the world!"

"Ah." Sherlock's eyes actually shone, " _Most elegant_. The world is full of criminals, John, it's just a matter of time of who acts when. Whether they get ahead of you or not, it's just a matter of getting caught. That's all there is..."

Another smack on his head and John Watson knew he'd never win this conversation.

"Sherlock, just please—"

"—did you bring what I ask you to?"

The doctor stared at his best friend. For everything he wanted to say, he knew it would all be futile because then the detective has that _expression_. The one that _insists_ whether you accept it or not. That unwinnable expression he calls it.

Without opening his mouth but with eyes burning to his friend, John took something from under the table and placed it on top between them. Sherlock wittily smiled like a kid who has found his toy—because it was a toy, it was the Cluedo board.

"Excellent. Nothing beats Cluedo where even the most impossible of crimes can happen whether it abides the rules or not because John, just like in real life— _nobody follows the rules._ "

"Hang on—what are you doing?" John frowned as he watched Sherlock open the box and laid the Cluedo parts on the table. Sherlock placed the equipments to its stations using only his right hand while his left got carried over. Once done, he rubbed his palms and eyed his friend who was looking at him with another disapproving glare.

"You think it's really time for this?" John asked cynically but he grabbed the cards all the same and kept them in an envelope.

"When's the perfect time?" Sherlock answered back as he picked up the dice.

* * *

 **~ TO BE CONTINUED~** **  
**

A/N: " _I'm never bored!" - JW ;)_

 **~Thanks for Reading~**


	3. Chapter 3

***Kings Hide Dragons***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

CHAPTER 3

I've reread Seventy-Percent Solution with Freud!

Awesome! Wish the series was here!

 ** _(And oh! The Abominable Bride! ;))_**

 ***Enjoy Reading!***

* * *

"I accuse the cop did it. Lounge and dagger. "

"No, here's the dagger card." John laid the card.

There was a sound of dice rolling.

"Hm. I accuse the cop _still_ did it. Longue and _wrench_. Ah, and possibly poison."

"You can't do that, Sherlock."

From an outside observer they would only see two grown up men with heads huddled together and with eyes transfixed at a board game bit casually _inside_ one of the highest security prison ward in the country. Staff and jail guards alike who were accustomed to the different irregularities of their inmates did not seem surprise at this unfolding event but some still did raise their brows or frown or _both._

Dr. John Watson could care less of what others think. He was used to Sherlock's eccentricities that made playing Cluedo in _Whitemoor_ appear _normal_ and almost laughable. What bothered him though was Sherlock's complete silence about the _specifics_ of why the two of them met there. He didn't even bother asking how he, John, found out his location and seemed absurdly absorbed in playing the game.

Like he _actually care_ about Dr. Black _,_ the victim in the board game,getting _murdered_.

Watching the man in front of him, John let the idea slid off his mind for awhile and decided to wait for the man himself to open up. After all, nothing can make the Sherlock Holmes _speak_ with accurate details than _himself._

 _Plus it saves him the stress._

The dice then rolled on with the two men seemingly engrossed—well, at least Sherlock was who had been making gestures of elation and rubbing his palms together every time he gets a clue and state his accusations. He didn't need any note taking for his brain was good enough to remember it. John on the other hand had to scribble and was getting more uptight and severe as time goes by. What with Sherlock repeating the same accusation towards the cop!

Finally after the long run when the _fixer_ had given its apparent clue against the reverend character and Sherlock yet again muttered the idea incorrect did the doctor give his friend a long look under his heavy brows. Once or twice he tried to interrupt the _too_ absorbed detective, and on both occasions Sherlock Holmes had automatically hand him the dice. Just to stop him, or spite him?

He couldn't tell.

But then another pressing matter happened when Sherlock halted the dice, lowered his hands under the table and narrowed his eyes at the board game. John's frown disappeared as he suddenly got curious at the new reaction.

"What?" he blinked at the position of the pawns wondering if something was amiss.

"The reverend's getting all the attention of clues. But I'm certain it was the cop. Hmmm. Could be both." He shrugged and juggled the dice while John tried to comprehend what he had just said—then before Sherlock could even throw the dice the doctor put his _foot_ down.

"Alright—stop! _Stop right there!"_ he pointed a finger at Sherlock who raised his eyes at him in blank surprise.

"Why?"

"Because you've just accused _two murderers_ in the game which is _NOT_ in the rules!"

"How many times do I tell you _nobody_ —"

" _You're the only one not doing it in Cluedo_! For godsake it was the victim last time too—" he did not mean to raise his voice but it sort of did and the jail guards were looking at them again. The doctor shifted his eyes around and cleared his throat while the consultant detective kept his eyes at him. John stared back.

"Let's stop this, alright? I don't even know why we're playing this bloody thing."

"We're passing the time—"

"Why do we need to pass time when we don't have much of it!?" he asked with raised eyebrows that got the detective's attention.

"You _are_ still upset." Sherlock observed as he threw the dice anyways that made John scratch his neck and point at his own face.

"This face, Sherlock—it's more than upset. No, I'd like to remind you of what you're doing right now in your current situation. I'd like to remind you that more than anything your job is to look for—"

"I'm looking for the murderer—" he moved his piece quietly-

" _Playing with the murderer!_ And please just stop playing already!" he finally managed to snatch the dice and pocketed it while the dark haired detective expressed a complete vacant expression.

"You are going to tell me why you're here, right?" the doctor finally managed to ask quietly with hands forming fists on the table. "You can't keep ignoring this question—you're in Whitemoor now. Is this part of your plan?"

"Planning can only get you so far," Sherlock said after a short pause with his right hand reaching on his piece and twirling it, "sometimes you have to take _risks_ in order to unveil the mystery."

That itself was the statement that would always make John Watson stare at his best friend in the most captivated manner. Sherlock gazed at him too as if knowing exactly the effect of his words while his hand tapped down to the envelope at the center of the board where the answer to the murder was.

"So this is out of your plan?" John quietly asked while he licked his dry lips.

"Not entirely."

"Tell me."

"Well... I can't actually just divulge it out in the middle of this crowd, could I?" he looked sideways to the CCTV camera unit and nearby guards standing around _watching them._ The doctor knew instantly what he meant so being inconspicuous he grabbed the nearest and smallest toy knife by the board and then pointed it at Sherlock.

"The _weapon_. The one that Mycroft told me about." He said simply, his eyes unblinking, "Is it here now?"

The dark haired detective looked down at the tiny weapon without moving a muscle before looking up at the doctor. The corner of his lips twitched but John warned him from smiling with one look. Sherlock sighed at his serious demeanour.

"Yep. But not my concern now."

 _"Not your concern—!?"_ he nearly choked at that— "Did you just say—?"

"Not my concern." He drawled in a bored voice that snapped another vein at John Watson's head. For this guy to disregard the biochemical weapon...?

"That's not funny— _you're supposed to look for it!_ "

"Keep it down, John—"

 _"What the hell are you saying?"_

"John—"

 _"You complete—"_ he stood up with raised arm—

" _John!_ You may want to drop your weapon for goodness sake you're inside _Whitemoor!"_

The two glared at each other once again until the doctor realise that one of the guards was actually looking at him cautiously this time so he had no choice but to shake his head, throw the toy knife down and sit himself back on the metal bench with clenched fists.

" _Jesus."_ He muttered incoherently while his former flatmate watch him with interest. "Jesus, Sherlock, you..."

"Calm down."

"Calm down?" John shot his friend a look and hissed in the lowest of voice, " _Sherlock Holmes_ have just snubbed three of the basic elements of a case— _the victim, the suspect and now the weapon!_ No—forget about the other two—I'm talking about _that weapon!_ If it's here it should be your primary concern or people will die—no wait— do you actually care about that? Just what exactly are you here for if not for that? _On a holiday!?"_

John closed his eyes tightly while Sherlock smiled. The detective then flipped the card he had just taken from inside the envelope.

" _Ah!_ So it is the cop after all." He exclaimed in satisfaction.

The doctor glanced down at the card the detective threw on the table and saw Marshall Gray's name before shaking his head. Sherlock seems out of his senses.

"Look, Sherlock," the doctor tried to pry away another set of cards from his friend but was unsuccessful, "You can have _your way._ We always do it your way no matter because we _trust you!"_

"Did I give you any reason not to trust me?" he grinned so manically that John had to lean back and stare at him for a whole minute. He had thought for a second that his friend had gone loony... and then he asked himself if he was the one going crackers because despite Sherlock's maniacal and sociopathic tendencies... he still _does_ trust the man.

"You're still enjoying this game, aren't you?" the doctor slowly started again with a found tolerance in his expression, "you being here, in this place—with that thing out there—you're still taking your time—"

"Of course not."

"Then why the _hell_ are you _still_ here?" he could swear there was a sudden spark of mischief on the detective's eyes. "If you've—"

"Unveiling mysteries John and I suggest stop asking questions now or they'll notice. You're not pretty much of help as you are now if they find you suspicious and get banned from visiting—"

John's ears went red for whatever the blazes— _Sherlock Holmes only cares about the visits!_

"No, I _won't visit you_ anymore." He shook his head with an air of vehemence. "You know what problem you have, Sherlock? You deliberately _withhold_ your plans from me! No, I won't be coming here anymore."

Sherlock gave John a sudden look torn between a test and amusement. It made the doctor's jaw tighten. Does Sherlock think he won't do it?

"O _h looky._ The reverend is _also_ a suspect." The detective suddenly announced and sure enough John caught sight of the second card Sherlock threw on the table and that was when the doctor realized he was not taken seriously.

Giving no warning, John then took the opportunity to stack all the pieces in one swift movement of his arms and shut them all in the box—

" _You_ are not allowed to play this game anymore." The doctor took the dice from his pocket and let Sherlock see it, "This is going out of your reach in Baker Street." He dropped it on the box and closed it.

"You're not going to throw it out, are you?" Sherlock looked unbelievably surprised.

"If it was mine I would have! _Actually it is mine!"_

"Fine. I'll just go buy another one—"

" _What is it with you and Cluedo?_ You're not even following the rules—"

"—it's _bending the rules—"_

 _"—see? You know your fault—!"_

 _"_ Oh please, John, if we really can't bend the rules there'd be more people in this place—"

"—you're justifying this place now?"

"—and you're taking out your anger on _Cluedo_ —"

"I'm not angry! And _I am keeping this as far as possible from reach!"_

"I can always find it." Sherlock challenged and John trust he would. This pissed him more.

"Look—I've had enough! I'm going out." John took the box and tucked it on his arms, all the while standing up with Sherlock's eyes on him, "Whatever you're up to— _do that_. Just remember there are again—since you seem to be so unconcerned— _lives are at stake!"_

He said his final words in a low voice as he turned his back on the detective. Sometimes Sherlock can be so full of _himself._ It was a miracle how he really could keep up with Sherlock. But then again they were always like that.

"John." Sherlock's voice was deep it seemed to resonate a grave meaning that made the doctor suddenly stop walking, "This place is full of people who have done wrongs... even the worst. There's hardly any damage that could be done."

To which the doctor whirled and gave his friend a look of disbelief.

Sherlock Holmes looked solemn as he continued, " _They_ prefer death."

"Why do you say that?" John knew his voice had gotten soft yet the note of sarcasm was ever present. "Did you have to use your inference or deductionto figure that out?"

"Hardly. It's obvious." Sherlock closed his eyes and then stared at him with both hands clasping, "This is prison. _Prisons kill people."_

John could not understand why, of all his friend's undeniable dickhead words, this struck him the most. It was true; Whitemoor is a maximum security prison that includes the DSPD (Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Unit) where most numbers of inmates are of the highest alert status and indefinite or lifetime imprisonment. Terrorists and the likes... but all the same, John could not shake the idea that Sherlock got his priority _wrong._

"Try saying that when you remember your _own_ life is at the line." The doctor quietly said as he gave his friend one final look before continuing his way toward the grand hall where the guard who escorted him was waiting. Sherlock can sometimes become dense... of his own safety.

The detective's minute of silence was enough for John to confirm that Sherlock was struck by his words.

Well, _he was making a point._

"Are you going to visit again?" he heard Sherlock call.

"Without _Cluedo."_ The doctor confirmed and was lead by the uniformed staff—

"Don't let my brother tease you, John! And tell him the pasture's _green!"_

For all that it was worth John paused to look back only to find Sherlock already engaged to his jail staff. So without further ado, the doctor followed his guide, took tour towards the body check, gave a nod to the uniformed officials outside the Visitor's Centre before walking down the path where he was expecting the limo to be parked.

Only, it wasn't there.

Frowning, John Watson blinked at the large space of a parking lot and was just wondering what next step to take when he saw another uniformed officer walking toward him.

"You're John Watson?"

"Yeah, yes—"

"Come with me. You helicopter's waiting at the right wing field."

* * *

The doctor laid the _Cluedo_ box on the top of Mycroft's table half an hour later with the doctor looking pretty much disagreeable and grumpy. Mycroft Holmes had watched him enter and seemed to have _observed_ more than see what had transpired with his visit with the younger brother.

"Don't let it get to you, John," he said after awhile as he gestured for the man to sit, "my brother can really be obstinate at times. He can be calling you on the phone with hints of urgency and then leave you hanging blank when you come ready to listen; he is still somewhat childish that way. By the way, what is this?"

He looked at the board game with a little scowl as if he was not asking _what it was_ but more like _what it was doing on his table the-abominable-thing._ Looks like Mycroft found _Cluedo_ very unchallenging and hates it for it.

"Sherlock's request." John answered with a little shrug, "He asked me to play _inside Whitemoor_. Do you want to keep it? It would ah... be a great help."

Mycroft's eyes pierced John as if daring him to say it again with a raised eyebrow at the board game.

But John had more pressing matters at hand than the older Holmes apparent _loathe_ at _Cluedo._

"Green pasture." The doctor said with lips pressed after, making Mycroft pause with one eyebrow raised again. John forced his eyes not to roll as he cleared his throat and repeated, "That's what Sherlock said. The 'pasture's green'? That's the secret code between the two of you this time right? The one I have to say before you tell me the details of what's going on?"

Funny enough the Holmes brothers, though somewhat full of rivalry, both ends have highest and utmost unshakeable loyalty to one another that can be shown in many twisted and even unvarying unexpected ways. John had known them long enough to affirm that both brothers have complete faith both to each other and their _abilities._ So that was why even without communicating words, the two seem to make silent agreements of what must be said and unsaid. Therefore the _code between the brothers._ John had encountered many of these codes that changes depending on the two and was not surprise to see Mycroft blink once and sit up straight with an astute expression.

And there he began:

"A month ago we've received a report from one of our international spies that communication between terrorists had been established from inside and outside the country and is aiming for England. They were able to get wind of the communication via hacking suspicious accounts that's been frequenting our networks. They were unable to locate and identify individuals but some files are still retrievable. We were able to gather terms NBC and well, Project _Al Capone_."

John, who had been following Mycroft's detailed account, frowned at the words presented. NBC itself was the biggest clue they could ever have for it represents all nuclear, biological and chemical warfare. What astounded him, however, was _Al Capone's_ relation to it all. Everybody knows Al Capone, an American mob gangster leader whose name and outrageous acts precedes him. Now John could see why Sherlock would automatically think of _prison...Al Capone_ was sent to prison wasn't he? One of the highest security prison— _Alcatraz_.

But then again that was just a dull reasoning on the doctor's part. Sherlock would have more than a thing to say, he was sure...

Mycroft seemed to follow his silent reverie.

"It's more than just the ' _Alcatraz'_ thing, John (the doctor shook his head slightly at how _accurate_ Mycroft could be when it comes to mind reading), no. We alerted the United States of this planned detrimental attack and they were as cautious as we were. A bioweapon attack of all things can destroy not only one, nor two but may even be _three_ nation's tranquillity and so our security measures were heightened. Since that month we've been monitoring the goings of _all_ visitors of the country. Those who were suspected were discreetly removed from crowds and were properly dealt with without harm lest they were innocent. We've been very wary ever since then and with Washington watching over their side it didn't seem possible for the threat to come at all. Still, we were very _prudent._

"Suspicious characters were also followed even without the weapon at hand... for weeks it went on negatively. Until this week our very man came... truly prepared. He was considered a suspicious character but found nothing in his possession that may incriminate him. Thus was allowed to join the public but as we monitor we were able to trace the call he was making and affirmed he was out man."

"Why didn't you apprehend him when you checked his details?" John interrupted for the first time, "I mean, you knew his background was a chemist in America? That could have been enough reason to hold him down right?"

"Ah, but there's no such thing on his bio. You know what they call 'fake documents', isn't there? He forged his papers John, even his security data claiming he was a Literature instructor—"

"But Sherlock said—"

"But you know him." He gave the doctor _that_ look, "You know us. You know how we know things others don't. Even with the given data one look from our man and we'd know even his most secret hobby. Unfortunately by the minute I was preoccupied with another suspicious character that seemed highly probable to be our suspect and was not able to glimpse at Thomas Bishop—that is really his real name by the way. By the time I saw him he was already at his hotel. I ordered people to follow him and that is when he hastily called his contact. It seemed he was disheartened by the interrogation earlier that gave him the idea that _we know._ I have already informed my brother of this case in which he _reluctantly_ but energetically agreed on."

"But your men let Bishop go from the airport because they didn't find anything? How did you deduce it was him?"

"Simple observation of humans, John." Mycroft's eyes glinted, "but it is true, the bioweapon in his possession was ever untraceable that a personal encounter with him is necessary. When the shooting happened as you already know Sherlock was the second on the scene right after my men and he was able to see the man's true nature as a talented Chemist like ourselves."

"But there was no weapon?" came back the question.

"Sherlock traced it, as you already know—to Brixton Prison."

"Yeah, but why there? If it's the Capone thing (Mycroft smirked smartly) there are plenty of other prisons to go to."

"Do you know the difference between Whitemoor and Brixton, John?"

"I'm sorry?"

"These prisons... what differs them?" the older Holmes leaned back on his chair to have a proper look at the doctor who inclined his head on the side, his eyebrows contracting. John watched him take out his pocket watch and look at it as he answered reluctantly—

"Well, depending on the maximum rate I suppose?"

"Yes... and where do you suggest we send a petty thief then?"

John frowned deeply. "Thief?"

Mycroft beamed and then stood up.

"Sherlock _will find_ the weapon John...he's already traced it to Whitemoor by cracking the KHD code—"

"What?"

"—and will be reporting shortly I assure you. I'm sorry John, but I have people to meet. All we have to do is be patient. In your case." He suddenly gave a doctor a nod who seemed to get the message right across that didn't stop him from saying—

"Sherlock said he's _not_ _concerned_ with the weapon anymore."

"Indeed?" Mycroft suddenly turned to him with both eyes full of interest and another raised eyebrow while the doctor nodded his jaw tight.

* * *

For three days John had maximum control of himself.

He did not visit Sherlock, nor did he bother Mycroft for any details and new results. After their last encounter he did not dwell into the matter regardless of how his gut was wrenching him to it. National crisis? Bioweapon? Why should he care at all? He remembered that last day Mycroft again asked him if he was okay of—how did Mycroft phrased it?— ' _Not penetrating the prison walls where adventure with Sherlock lurks because after all you are his alter ego'._

Alter ego. Nicely said.

So John just stayed home like any common middle aged man his age would do while caring for his family and his profession to make his point. Hardly any time for the likes of Sherlock Holmes who still seemed to be in the midst of exploring his humble new _home._

 _In a prison._

A sudden violent chunk of fork on plate made John mutter a curse as he was in the middle of eating. The thought made him carelessly stab his meat in the dining table with Mary watching him.

"Sorry."

"Aren't you really going?" his wife asked across him not for the first time while they were eating dinner in their kitchen on the third night. She had been trying to catch him off guard to ask the same question, and persistently at that. "It's been three days."

" _I'm not."_ John swallowed his food with his eyebrows heavy on his eyes. "Let's drop it."

Mary pressed her lips looking _un_ offended and went on eating while John chewed on a bit forcefully.

Partly from being kept in the dark, John was struggling on something internal, _and it was not because he was called an 'alter ego',_ no. He had been called a lot of names before that and this one given by Mycroft he took with _pride._

No. The problem was _Sherlock_ , the detective himself, and his _act._

Curse Sherlock the day he learned to be selfless and be sensitive enough _not to invite him on such exploration!_

Oh, how his left hand twitched at night.

The doctor's contemplation lasted till he woke up next morning, have taken a bath and was on his way to work.

Bitterness may be a fine word, but John knew he was above all that already. There was no bitterness between Sherlock (except the time the man himself false _d_ his death) and himself. Above anything it was pure _trust_. And Sherlock had known his (John) grand intimacy for dangerous situation too... so the question on the matter at hand was _why_ didn't the consultant detective _consult his closest friend?_

 _Could be dangerous._

Sherlock's message on his phone years ago flashed before his mind and John had to lean on his chair inside his office as he recollected this.

 _Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in. I'm trying to recruit you._

Wasn't that his very word that time they worked against one villain from the past?

John had known Sherlock for a very long time... and the only times the man himself wouldn't go involve him was whenever he see the case fit for one... or when he the case highly and most likely involving real _harm and casualty._

Was the case fit for one?

Well, certainly _they can't both go to prison._

 _Can't they?_

John had to shake his head vigorously at the thought. No. People around him had already assumed he would but there are some limits even when Sherlock is concerned.

But then, as doctor thought about it... _Sherlock_ has never resorted to the _'fit for one'_ man-case if he could help it because he'd always turn to John... and every time that he, John, was left out or _sent away_ (that time Sherlock waited for him to leave their flat and met with Moriarty for the first time; and the other he will always regret at the Reichenbach when he was deliberately made to believe their landlady was shot gravely to the point of death only to find her perfectly sound while in his absence, Sherlock met Moriarty) Sherlock _knows_ he will meet his doomed faith and he was ever ready to be _alone_.

Or to that effect.

The office was left empty even before this summary was concluded.

* * *

 **~ TO BE CONTINUED~** **  
**

A/N: Alright may run for another chapter or 2 ;D

' _ **Miss me**_?'

 **~Thanks for Reading~**


	4. Chapter 4

***Kings Hide Dragons***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

CHAPTER 4

 _"Alone is what I want. Alone protects me."_

Sherlock's side of the bed in this chapter!

 ** _(Prepare yourself for prison lingo!)_**

 ***Enjoy Reading!***

* * *

 _'Incarceration._

 _One would think that here lies the defeat of freedom when in reality it merely limits the physical embodiment and never one's mind. No. Nothing can stop the freedom of the mind..._

 _And my **mind** and mind palace can be anything but **stopped.'**_

Sherlock Holmes opened his green eyes to the four walls of his room, staring directly into the same space of the white wall he had gotten accustomed to for the past few days.

His four walled room was hardly the size of his kitchen back at 221B but interesting enough it shows the same promise. It was made of brick with the only entrance and exit the metal doorway with a tiny square metal aperture the height of his eyes and a small bed attached to the wall and nothing more yet the detective could hardly find another most appealing room for there on the wall, screaming to him like it was fully alive and meant only for him, were marks and messages of its late occupant and his _murder._

Though he has been told many times by the authorities that the previous man had committed suicide.

Whereas he had proved them wrong so many times with literally _concrete_ evidences he cannot believe the police had missed. _But no surprise there._ _They_ would miss the picture of a murderer even if it was under their noses because it was a _habit._ What he could not understand was the continuous dismissal of the warden staff no matter how he, Sherlock, had been bugging them to it. Even Lestrade was not that dim-witted.

But that's the thing with being the _greenhorn_ inmate, as he was called. Nobody takes your side.

Nobody takes your opinion.

The only thing that Sherlock could do for the poor man was to mutter to everyone who would listen his real story.

He gets thrown a lot back inside his jail for that though. Such amateurs!

 _Like that would be enough to stop him_ —

Sherlock's train of thoughts were disrupted by the sound of the metal locks clinking open and the next thing the inmate heard was the sound of the hinges and his door opening wide.

"Time to come out, boffin ** _do_**."

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. He did not even turn his back as he was sitting on the floor with cross legs and fingertips pressed together, his elbows on his knees like some sort of meditation as he muttered, "It's boffin, _boffin._ The least you could do is study your British."

"Don't get paid for it do I? Now come out."

"Do I really have to go out? Can't you all just pretend I don't exist for the entire day?"

"Trust me we'd rather leave you alone," The jail staff said with a bit of a snarky remark, "you're not exactly Mr. Popular."

"Oh yeah, I'm striving for that title." Sherlock stood up in his loose orange jail clothing as he walked to face his jail guard—a large man a few inches taller than himself with square black beard, crooked nose and dark eyes. Really suits his job except for the extra pounds, "And Jimmy, your doctor did tell you many times to watch your sweet consumption didn't he? Your diabetes will not improve on its own."

He simply walked pass the guard and was already focusing his eyes on the outside when he heard the guard call to him as he walked away—

"You weirdo, how'd you guess that out? My name?"

"Obviously on your name collar? And you smell like you swam in sugar lake and believe me it took me all ounce of consideration not to tell you your other _stench_. You better stop sleeping with the dog too."

He heard the banging of his cell door and distinctly heard a curse after him but he was already preoccupied of the outside world inside this great prison. Now as he casually walked across the hall, _he observed everything and everyone._ And he did take notice of them slowly looking his way and following him with their eyes be it the jail staff or the inmates. This part Sherlock liked best.

For then when people act doubtful and suspicious of others, they themselves become the most suspicious. Clearly having something to be cautious about and hide makes them all _susceptible_ to _show it._

And this experiment he did _again_ as he took his lunch tray from the jail cafeteria where most inmates where in now for it was already a quarter to noon and carried it to the next table where five occupants were sitting.

The moment he sat there comfortable was the exact moment when the inmates shot each other looks and carried their lunch trays away to join other tables. Sherlock's eyes glinted at this experiment of observation.

 _Highly suspicious,_ he noted and took a bite on his bread. _Prison bullies._

The prison cafeteria was as commonplace as it gets. People sitting and walking around, authorities lounging about, kitchen staff absorbed in estimating the scoop of their servings; the reigning sound of utensils and plates and the nonstop sound of dozens of teeth chatting and chewing. The chatting Sherlock would never miss even with all the unnecessary sounds. It was the most rewarding part of his every day for one—the inmates would be talking about different sorts of highly intellectual topics like bosses, boobs, skins, ghosting, woods, snitches and snouts— perfectly making sense to Sherlock after his four days stay in the yard.

Soon, the sound of the utensils and grindings of teeth have disappeared as his ears perked up...

 _"—Cat A—"_

 _"—he lookin' for somebody to be his maytag in blue,"_

 _"—kangaroos all around sniffin'—"_

 _"—they gonna be meetin' at the weights—"_

 _"—he can be no guys maytag—"_

 _"— don't make me laugh, got me an image to hold idiot—"_

"— _is it one of my mates in blue?"_

 _"—it ye they was tense I heard a lot—"_

 _"—the boss not hanging about here in green—"_

 _"—gonna get banging out that new cat—"_

 _"—no govs be watching there—"_

 _"— I got a jammer ready for boffin—"_

Unconsciously as he wanted to believe, Sherlock stood up abruptly from his chair and slinked along the chairs and tables of prisoners on his way with eyes straight to the place he wanted to reach. The moment he did, he stopped at a table where at least six men were seated and without warning— _struck the end of his plastic fork down the table so loud_ that shook the table and made all heads turn his way.

"Oi!" an officer shouted from the corner of the room while making his way toward the group meanwhile Sherlock was admiring his fork and the appalled faces of his _inmates._

"Ah, look at that. It didn't split up considering its plastic. There's a certain technique—"

"Oi, what the hell are ye doing?" the large inmate seated below Sherlock who was now ogling at him irately breathed out loud, "you lookin' for a fight?" he stood up with all his cronies doing the same, their eyes on the lone detective.

"Don't be silly, why would I look for a fight?" Sherlock said sarcastically, his face not far away from the man, "I just can't help overhearing a conversation concerning me—you guys are planning to invite me at the gym? One on one? Two on two? Here's my answer."

He inclined his head on the fork, his eyes narrowing.

The large man frowned at the dark haired man, "But you was sitting on the other side! How could you hear—"

"It's elementary. And it's _'you were'_. Also elementary."

"You real weirdo—"

"Oi!" came the officer to Sherlock's little satisfaction, "what's going on here?"

"Apparently officer—"

"I wasn't talking to you." Snapped the officer with a curt nod at the large man who was still eyeing Sherlock with deepest loathe, "What's going on?"

"This loony guy just come attacking from nowhere with his fork—"

" _Plastic fork, hardly can scratch you—"_ Sherlock went on—

"Quiet." The officer glared at him as the large inmate continued—

"We was not done eating and the bloke just lost it attacking people—"

"You do realize you're babbling?" Sherlock snapped and ignored another glare from the officer, "It will save us an amount of time not listening to this cat send him to his boob—"

"Boob—?" the officer's expression hardened that made Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Why are they sending new police here? There are like twenty of you and none of you knows the basic except squat around with your high chins. By the way you've got to get rid of your shave, its tetanus. Alright the best advice is to study the lingo of your job. Now apparently this guy here whose root canal must be paining him and who's decided to ignore it by smoking is planning to attack me at gym with a knife so you might want to search him otherwise leave us to our own devices and there'd be plenty of bleeding heads rolling tonight and it's not going to be mine."

There was a hushed silence at the group of inmates on the table as they exchanged looks.

"Too obvious a plan." Sherlock offered with a snarky expression, "No wits at all."

The large man's jaw twitched.

"What? Did you see those in his possession?" the officer look clearly confused— making Sherlock snap—

"Try talking to him an inch close and you'll see everything that needs to be knowing—dark lips, breathing pattern, end of nose with a discoloured spot and the fact that he smells of cigarette—actually half the people here have them. Now as for the knife—"

" _You been lookin' at our stuff this bastard—!"_ a fist came flying that Sherlock easily dodged—the fist contacted with another inmate who was in attempt to hold the detective down. The inmate tumbled backwards and hit another table of prisoners who gave roar of outrage as they also tumble down and all stood up, eyes at Sherlock—

Loud whistles were heard amidst the roars of raging souls.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, _lay off the officers and inmates!"_

This was the very advice that was given to the dark haired man detective as he found himself seated inside another room sporting a bleeding lip, purple left cheek and swollen arm, courtesy of the brawl that broke up in the cafeteria minutes ago. The room he was in smelled of perfume, an aroma that gave Sherlock data to add rather than to enjoy.

Seated across him behind a table was a red haired woman wearing spectacles, in her long white coat and clipboard. She was looking very severe and tight lipped at the moment as she said those words to the inmate. It was not the first time Sherlock heard it though and not the first time meeting that doctor. Still he continued sitting there with an air of placidness.

And the woman whose name tag addresses to Dr. Andrea T. Bell, PhD, _psychologist_ , continued with eyes on her clipboard—

"We've been through this many times. Your information doesn't benefit you at all, Mr. Holmes, I've already noted your—

"—' _misconduct of behaviour in relation to dealings with other inmates, aggressiveness, tactless, imprudence and getting on people's nerves with sociopathic tendencies—_ it's high functioning sociopath, I thought you do research?"

"And you read my writings even though it's turned against you?" she raised her delicate thin brows at him.

"It's obvious in your strokes. Didn't even have to glimpse."

She sighed and set the clipboard aside.

"Then you've also 'read' that I wrote there ' _excellent observation skills_ and _undeniably smart'_ —?"

"' _To that point of idiocy'"_ Sherlock finished her sentences with narrowed eyes, "obviously doctor, you're not complimenting me. That reminds me of my friend."

"Hmm," she nodded and leaned back on her chair conversationally, "you have a friend?"

"He does tend to mix up words that elates you in a second and brings you crashing down in the next."

"You must be very fond of him."

"You can tell?"

"Well, he's the only person to stick around you is he?"

" _I let him_ _stay_." Sherlock watched her get the clipboard and smirked as he distinctly read the stroke of ' _arrogant'_ added under his note. He raised his eyes next and the two eyed each other.

"Mr. Holmes," the psychologist now put both clasped hands on the table and for Sherlock that was never a good sign. It was the sign of 'let-us-get-down-to-business' and down to business she did. "I cannot do anything for you anymore. Sooner or later I'm going to have to label you under the DSPD in Category A—"

"Excellent."

"—for being a danger to those around you—sorry—?" she seemed to catch his response late and gave him a curious look. Sherlock glanced at her innocently and she continued, "You know that Whitemoor is one of the eight highest maximum prisons in Britain with almost half if not all Prisoners _terrorists_. It's not helping us that you are creating these disturbances where peace is divided from catastrophe by a hair strand—"

"Am I supposed to help you have 'peace'?"

"With your record as a previous _boffin detective—"_

"Well, I am now an inmate," Sherlock frowned, "am I suppose to have a role when I'm already thrown in prison, _doctor?_ Have you forgotten my case? _Treason."_

"Which undeniably is a lost in our side," she gave him the strangest look, "the day you decided to be one of them. What I'm trying to say is this time you have no liberty over your choices whatsoever because you are now under the restrictions of Her Majesty's Prison, Mr. Holmes, and that whether you like it or not you're going to have to cooperate. Something that you've been neglecting to do in you _free days."_

Sherlock stared at her as she finished with almost twinkling eyes.

"Cooperate?" he echoed with head nodding, "And that includes 'mingling' I suppose?"

"Mingling _properly_. With less violence." She nodded at his injuries.

"Then you are deluding yourself, doctor. You better find another job if you wish to get rid of violence in this place."

"I do not wish for it, Mr. Holmes, I'm trying to do something about it by telling you to _lay off the inmates and officers."_

"Me, why me? They're the ones planning to attack me—"

"Your verbal abuse—"

"'Verbal abuse'?" he nearly laughed— "Since when has telling the truth of their history and actions and plan actions or their smoking habits or sexual habits part of abuse?"

"When you've decided to narrate it _when you're not suppose to know it."_ She marked with sarcasm.

"I don't even know what that means." He snapped.

"Mr. Holmes, do you know how many of these people hate you now? And... do you know how many officers actually dislike you?"

"Why should I give them special treatment? Inspector Lestrade hardly gets one—"

"—what we're trying to avoid is not only a prison riot but another violent _death—"_

"If I make a habit of making people like me then I won't tell you you need to brush the dust at the left side of your bed which is actually making you cranky."

He knew he had touched a nerve at how her eyes sparked.

"Is it the absence of ring on my fingers?" she asked as she surveyed him haughtily.

"That and the fact that you don't have any pictures of a man save your cat. And you're in mid 30's."

"I know." She shook her head and sat straight in her chair as she scribbled a few notes on her clipboard again, "Then I suppose you won't mind isolation... because Mr. Holmes, you've been to Category C in your first two days...and Category B in the last two days... I can't believe a man can pull himself up this fast in the rankings of prisoners. But I think Category A will suit you just fine."

Sherlock sat rigid as she wrote what he could read with expression indifferent. Later on, he frowned.

"' _Down the brink'?_ " he quoted, reading from her writings.

She looked up in mock surprise. "I thought you know the prison lingo, Mr. Holmes? You don't think you can escape from today's activity before your transfer, do you?"

He could swear he saw a twitch of smile at the side of her lips.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Do you know what they call you?" he asked as he stood up to take his leave knowing that the interview was over. "You and your people acting like you know what's on their head? I'm called sociopath and that's fine, but _psycho-squad?_ A bit telling, isn't?"

He grinned and turned without even looking back.

As Sherlock Holmes went out of the Psychologist ward, he was met by his tall officer, Jimmy, who had always had the pleasure of locking him in his cell.

"Knew you wouldn't last a minute even in lunch time," he smirked at him as he pulled on his handcuffs, "what'd you do that for? Head butting an officer?"

"I didn't head butt an officer, Jimm—" Sherlock had hardly finished his words when out of nowhere the officer's head collided with his—sending impact so strong that threw him down the ground in extreme pain.

"You did now," the jail staff stood tall next to him with eyes around, "I do not smell like no dog. And nobody seen that, you know? And nobody'd believe you."

It took Sherlock time to realize the guard had grabbed him by the neck and was urging him to stand whilst his head was swimming. He was made to walk forcefully.

"If you're so concerned about being seen," the detective muttered with one eye trying to blink open from pain, "then you shouldn't have done it, yeah? Tough guy?"

"Shut it," Jimmy gripped the back of his neck tightly Sherlock could actually feel his nails digging down his skin, "even if we was seen by inmates who'd come rescue you? You don't have any one here who got your back. Because that's the thing here, _boffindo_ , you're safe if you've got people's back and they've got yours. Whose back do you have? Bet you didn't even have that outside these walls."

"You'd be surprised."

Sherlock broke away from him forcefully after getting his head to stop swirling and eyed the officer who cautiously looked at him in case there was a violent return. There wasn't. Sherlock continued blinking his eyes and shaking his head.

"I am surprised." Jimmy went on as he pushed Sherlock by the shoulder gruffly, "you've got a visitor."

* * *

"You look terrible."

"What?" Sherlock frowned at his friend, John Watson's first comment the moment he sat across him in the visitor's centre few minutes. He had not properly looked at the doctor in the first minute because of the lingering pain on his head but once he did, he saw that John was watching him with a strange concerned and defiant look on his face. Blinking at him, Sherlock remembered the state he was in. "Oh, you mean these... it's nothing—"

"Nothing?" John breathed almost angrily, "You look like a beaten cock! I haven't seen you in the past few days and now—"

"Don't exaggerate it," Sherlock cut him off with now fully opened eyes, "these are bruises acquired today, not a compilation of four days—"

"God, that's helpful." The doctor buried his face on his palms that caught the detective's attention.

"What's the matter—what are you so angry about? You didn't visit for days _I_ should get angry—"

To Sherlock's bewilderment there came an eruption—

"What I'm so _angry about?!—_ You're getting yourself beaten to pulp and I _know_ it's _your fault!_ They don't let prisoners get beaten up like that in here Sherlock—they don't! This place is secured but you looking like that—you brought that on yourself by not stopping yourself from being who you are!"

The dark haired detective blinked a few times, "So you're telling me to not be myself and I'll get less attention?"

"That's all there is!" the doctor clamped his hands together, his eyes scrutinizing each of his injuries with a grave expression, "You've just got to stop provoking them, I'm begging you."

"I don't understand what you are so concerned about John," Sherlock muttered as he sat straight, his eyes on his best friend's face, "it's about me, isn't? Why are you so angry when I'm the one getting the bang-out?"

"Bang-out?"

"Means 'beaten'," Sherlock dismissed the question and leaned on the table, "look, it's hardly my fault the cats here are too suspicious and violent—well, more interesting than the outside world— but I'm telling you I don't actually enjoy it—"

"—liar."

"—but the boobs are fun. It's not when even the kangaroo is after your neck."

He unconsciously reached his handcuffed hands at the back of his neck and rubbed it.

"What, boobs?" John's face contorted as he sat up, "Cat? Kangaroos? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Their prison lingo, John. The prisoners have created their own society, what stops them from using their own lingo? 'Boobs' is hardly imaginative, it means prison. Cat's a convict, obviously—same with the kangaroo." He nodded his head at the jail guards standing by the doorway.

"How long have you've been studying their language?"

"Oh waste of time, hardly a second, there's not much on the list—"

"Hang on a minute—" now John Watson's eyes suddenly lit up, occasions that Sherlock often noticed when his friend was in the verge of exploding again, "when you said ' _the kangaroo is after your neck..._ '?"

"Obviously police that jumps around knocking people." Sherlock stretched his neck on the left to ease the pain when John suddenly shot out of his chair and rounded behind him. Without a word, the doctor grabbed hold of the detective's head and nape and forced him to look down—

"John—what are you—"

"Fingertips," the doctor whispered slowly as he released Sherlock and the two looked at each other, "there're marks of fingertips at the back of your neck!"

"Yeah, well—"

John's face sharply looked up to the guard by the door, his expression the most intimidating, "Is that him?"

He was already walking toward the guard when Sherlock called him back.

"What are you doing, John?"

"Is that the guy who hurt you?"

"No—now come back here, what's the matter with you?" he asked as he too, stood up with expression full of disbelief as the doctor reluctantly went back with his right palm swabbing his face and the two stood up face to face. "You're not planning to beat a guard are you?"

"Just gonna chin him up, yeah," sighed the doctor as he calmed down a little and eyed his friend, "Sherlock look—stop this. Whatever you're playing at, at least do that without losing a limb or something. You are alone there... probably the _most alone_ you've ever been. No police to help you apparently, no brother to watch you—"

"And no friend to watch my back clearly." Sherlock could just remember the words of his warden and sighed considerably as he looked down at the doctor again. John was staring at him fixedly. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Except for bruises the level of interest will keep me away from cigarette for a long time." He smirked. "Do you know they _attack people at night?"_

"Attack? What attack?"

"Simple enough the only thing it can happen is when the officers are involved—"

"Sherlock—"

"I wonder how many of them actually are—"

"Have you been attacked then?"

"Second night. They couldn't stand me, you saw my bruise."

"You shouldn't be proud." John looked unimpressed, "You better have someone look after your cuts. It's not appealing for your doctor."

"Never mind, the meds ready to throw a syringe at me when I told him he should stop two timing his boyfriend _with another bloke_ —"

" _Sherlock—!"_

"Plus I got _down the brink_ at my psychologist's referral."

" _Down the brink?_ What's down the brink?"

"Don't be so alarmed. Be put in segregation. Lock up."

"I think that's better. Keep you away from people."

Sherlock gave John a look.

"Isolation. They won't keep me there for long I'll be ghosted."

"Ghosted?" the doctor was waiting for an answer when they heard the visiting room's door opened from the quarter of the prison and saw a tall, large man enter with eyes on the detective.

"Anyways, you visiting did prove a point." Sherlock muttered as he stood in his full height, his eyes on the walking warden officer, "but due to demands I don't think it's wiser to call upon me after this. I won't be allowed visitors next time."

"What?" John shot him another look of unease, "Why?"

" _Time's Up, boffindo."_ Jimmy officer had crossed the tables and was now standing feet from the two and Sherlock saw John threw him a livid look.

"It's _boffin,"_ John had said before Sherlock could even stop him; he even stepped forward despite the height difference with his seething eyes up at the man, "and if you ever lay a finger on my friend again I swear that's the last thing your hands will do."

The warden officer frowned at the small man and then looked up at Sherlock whose eyes had gotten dark all of a sudden as if daring him to say anything at all.

"Well, John thanks a lot," the detective then said when Jimmy had stepped away waiting for him to move, "that proves another point. _You're a very dangerous man."_

"Sherlock," there was uncertainty in his voice that the detective heard as he was ushered away.

"Don't worry John, things are under control."

"You believe that?" Jimmy muttered once he locked the door behind him and he and Sherlock were at the other side of the world again. "Crazy little bloke you've got for a friend. But then again no normal person would actually stick with you eh? Does he really think he can threaten me? I'd beat him—"

Sherlock smiled and— _thud—_ collided his head on the officer's face.

* * *

Despite the darkness, Sherlock knew how long time had elapsed. He had been in that complete darkness for _two days._ Too much a word for segregating someone, though he actually knows for a fact that there was some guy recently who got segregated longer than he...for about two years? But was he ever inside a cell with no lights be it at morning or night? Talk about _personal_ authority.

Ration of food was no problem and truth be told there was less injury while he was there. Dull. Recuperating for those two days, Sherlock Holmes prepared himself for the next opening of that door. Because the next time it will be opened, he will be sent to the real _masters of crimes._

His feral _Loki._

And long he waited in darkness...

Finally, as the third day dropped its cue, he heard the locks opening. Sherlock opened his glinting eyes.

 _The time has come._

Straightening up, he waited for light to grace his little abode.

 _"Get up, boffindo. We're sending you to Category A. About time to."_ There was some sort of humour in that new officer's voice. Did they sack Jimmy or something? Or did he get pawned by the other inmates?

Sherlock had stayed too much in the dark that his own thoughts and sight was clouded and all he could think about was _finding his prey._ Not expecting the real light to appear when the door opened and showered him with its brilliance.

And saw John Watson standing outside his door with a smirk.

In a warden officer's clothes.

Sherlock had to blink his eyes several times as John tapped his baton at the metal door.

" _Come on then boffin! The game's on."_

Sherlock jumped out of his cell and looked at his friend from head to foot.

"John..."

"Move it," the officer muttered, lightly shoving the detective from the back after putting his cuff on with hands behind, "Don't worry. I got you."

Sherlock pressed his lips and silently gave out a sigh.

"You sure about this?" he muttered back, barely moving his lips as he saw other officers waiting for them to move, "being an officer in this place isn't really same with waltzing you know."

"Trust me." John finally said with a firm hold at the detective's arm, "I know exactly what I'm doing."

* * *

 **~ TO BE CONTINUED~** **  
**

A/N: A chapter to go and the doctor's just gotten in!?

Is that really gonna be the wrap up!?

*I'm all gears!*

 **~Thanks for Reading~**


	5. Chapter 5

***Kings Hide Dragons***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

CHAPTER 5

 _"Here's to Peace."_

'We stand with France. United.'

 ** _(Crime doesn't pay! We need those two Holmes so bad.)_**

 ***Enjoy Reading!***

* * *

 _'_ _"Brilliant."_ _  
_

John Watson pressed his eyes closed as he distinctly heard the man beside him mutter this word as they walk along the corridor with three more escorts behind. Sherlock Holmes was beside him wearing his orange jersey with handcuffed hands at the back and on the way to his new prison cell. Ahead of them was a tall, metal door that leads to the outside of the B wing where they were sure the next door would be leading to the most dangerous realm in Whitemoor.

And this was the very reason Sherlock was at the edge of his feet with excitement as John could see.

"This is your plan all along, isn't it? Reach this place." The now newly appointed jail staff muttered softly so that the others wouldn't hear.

"Where else should I be looking when all evidences are pointed this way?"

"Well I don't have your evidences."

"You have seen. You just didn't observe."

"I'm not as keen as you."

"You never were."

"Yet I'm here."

"Yes," there was a pause as Sherlock looked down at the doctor curiously, "Why are you here?"

"Ask that again and I'm going to lock you up in your cell and never let you out."

Sherlock suddenly made a sound between a pressed giggled and a snort, making the other escorts behind them shot him looks of curiosity and frowns. John gave them a side glance and reproachful look on his best friend's way.

"We're taking you to Wing A and your laughing." He said loud enough after he cleared his throat to make sure that he would not give away his position, "Some kind of a tough nut you are, eh? Boffin?"

He gave the detective prisoner a sharp look, to which Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes.

"Where'd you get this idea?" he said finally as they stopped in front of the barred doors and it was opened right after checking their id's and papers. They walked a meter away from the others. "Becoming a jail staff."

"Your brother." They were walking now on the pave ground in an open area where the gray sky and the field of Whitemoor could be seen except that high fences with security cameras and towers were positioned about.

"Ah, should have known." Sherlock travelled his eyes on the vicinity and John just knew how his mental capacity was recording everything he sees.

"I was intending to be an inmate and was planning to make him a hostage as part of my crime."

"Now that _is_ brilliant. Would have sent you directly to Wing A. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Why didn't you?"

"He's got another threat to think off, Mycroft. Something big's about to happen and I'm not only talking about England."

"A different attack? Where?"

"Paris. He's talking to people as we speak."

"Yeah? And he told me I'd be much useful here."

"And that's my brother telling you to be the centre of attention of all criminals. Do you know the average of beaten up officers here in Whitemoor?"

"Yeah and you're in the safest position in the planet yourself."

"Well, that makes us two."

John shot him a look and then both looked up ahead for they were nearing another high security check entrance where most of the guards armed with high calibre weapons. The doctor fixed his eyes at the guards while Sherlock's eyes narrowed from left to right.

The moment they stopped in front of the gate, a blonde bulky officer with a curt, disagreeable expression met them.

"Sherlock Holmes, DSPD, Wing C." The blond officer started after John handed him the I.D card—

"Gordon?" Sherlock suddenly said that made both John and the blonde officer turn his way. The dark haired inmate was eyeing the officer's name plate before he looked up and met him in the eye.

"Senior Officer." Added the blonde man in a matter of fact tone as he returned the id to John and eyed the inmate from head to foot, "You're that problem they've been having a fit about in the head quarters? Man like you. Well, that's not going to happen here, in here you'll follow me, you understand?"

He stood in his full height, a mark of an officer showing who's in charge and was trying to make an impression.

"Clearly." Sherlock said without a blink of his eyes as he met the man's squarely, making John glance his way with a frown, "You've got heavy hands, I noticed. _Officer."_

Officer Gordon clenched his knuckles and raised his cleft chin. "You can tell?" there was a dark humour in his voice that John did not like. It was a provocative remark that one Sherlock would never let pass—

And he was correct as the inmate smiled. "Oh I can tell a lot about you—"

John Watson cleared his throat and made his presence known.

"We've got to put this one ASAP on a Segregation Unit, Officer Gordon. Immediate reference on his papers if you've checked." He handed the papers on the blonde man's hands.

Gordon looked at him with curt eyebrows after he scanned the papers.

"Who are you?"

John let his chest out. "John Watson. Transferred from Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _prison_. Main grade officer."

"Fifth Northumberland?" Gordon looked surprised for a moment but he recovered himself as he returned the papers on John's hands, "What are you doing here?"

"You're short on staff, Officer. I've been called." John said flatly. Behind him he could almost see Sherlock smirking yet again. "I'm assigned as this fellow's warden, check the papers and his papers said he is to be sent to Seg Unit. _Sir."_

The bulky officer eyed him which John returned, it was then that Gordon turned to Sherlock.

"Isn't that sweet, your warden's ready to throw you off at the Seg. Not bad. I'll be seeing you around then. Move it."

He turned away without another word and John and Sherlock were left to stare at his back and together they entered the fence unit of wing A with new escort walking ahead of them.

"Nicely played." The detective muttered closely to the doctor, "Pulling ranks _down,_ John. You pulled your rank down. Main grade officer? I'm a shamed."

"Yeah, well... one person standing out is enough." He threw Sherlock a look.

Ahead of them stood another maroon building with no window save a lone entrance; on the wall was a large sign of wing A, DSPD and CSC units, SSU and TACT.

"Oh splendid." Sherlock's eyes glinted as he read the sign, "This is where I should have been from the start."

John looked at him and saw that his eyes were fixed on the TACT board.

" _Terrorist Act._ " He muttered under his breath as they stopped by another door and heard it opening, "That's just great, Sherlock. You excited. Not a good sign for whomever you're after." The doctor smiled despite his scrutinizing eyes and added. "We are now about to enter a place where the _most dangerous people on earth is gathered_."

The door was opened and Sherlock Holmes stepped into the threshold with a breath of the air and exhaled—

" _Oh yes_. Everyone dangerous is gathered here... _now_."

* * *

"I don't think there's any need for you to be thrown to Segregation after all." The doctor said quietly as the two stood in the middle of a large hall where supposedly inmates are socializing.

It was empty.

"Officer." Called a voice and the two turned to see their escort heading towards the left side of the hall. They followed with John taking Sherlock by the arm as the detective get absorbed with his observation skills. From left to right there was only ever a large empty space where almost everybody could see everything. Everything was white and grey.

When John led Sherlock to the left side, the detective glimpsed what appeared to be a separate archway and inside it where the _inmates_ he was looking for—people wearing caps and kneeling on the ground. This information sinking in, Sherlock's attention was taken by the other officer escorting them giving instructions to John.

"Closed doors, everybody locked up till 6 in the morning, breakfast, lunch, dinner to be taken from the kitchen. Preferably they eat in the dining hall but should trouble arise send immediately to their cells. Check rule book section 6 for punishment inquiries but normally they just get thrown to Seg unit for days. Shower room in their own cell; in their cell allowed to stay there if they want to or attend activities in the gym, educational formation, religious formation anything they'd like to be doing _recreational._ Check available activities if interested. But always around 6 in the evening everybody will be locked up again and the same roll call and routine. Questions?"

He turned to John but it was Sherlock who spoke—

"How many inmates are here exactly?"

The officer raised his eyebrows and looked at John.

"Watson, is it? I'm Chandler, wing C attending officer. If you're from an army prison then you know better about this lot. Never leave them alone for a sec. Especially not when they are gathering."

"Are you really supposed to say that with this guy around?" the doctor asked with his own eyebrow raised.

"Oh, they should know they are watched 24 hours. Protocol."

"And how many inmates are we speaking of here?" John pushed the question.

"148 overall the three wings. Decreased from recent years. Capital punishment, natural cause. Self infliction. One got minor sentence down and was sent to normal wing but I heard he jumped himself off. Poor sod. Anyways, powers remain."

"Power?"

"Groups. Leaders. You are to watch more than he. There's a lot of stuff goin' on and god knows how short-staffed we are. Here's your cell. 221."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

"Coincidence?" the doctor mouthed.

"Ridiculous."

"Well? Now what?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you said you know what you're doing?"

"Yeah, that's my plan but I don't know yours, _now tell me."_

The detective thought for awhile, then his eyes twinkled.

"Oh, you've just got the best job, John—"

"Don't call me by my name here—"

"Hamish?"

" _I'll kill you."_

"Fine. Find me information about all the prisoners here if you can—important ones. Especially check out the Muslim group—"

"Muslim group?"

"Didn't you see them doing their worship out there—"

"Something the matter?" Chandler spoke from behind the doctor who immediately turned to him with lips pressed.

"This guy's just asking questions about his loo."

Chandler opened the door behind him wide and handed the locks to the officer.

"He's all yours." And left the company after telling John further about the staff's quarter location.

And John locked the door behind them the same moment that Sherlock whirled around to him and took the papers on his hands—then whipping a pen out of nowhere he clicked it and started scribbling something down. John's head was with him in a second.

"What's that?"

"Something I saw on the wall inside my last cell." Sherlock answered as he straightened himself and give the paper to his friend, "The one I told you about. It's murder."

John took the piece of paper and saw sticks in five as counting numbers not more so 48, different words in different sizes and angles written on it repeatedly— the words ' _killed', 'bomb', 'suicide', 'god' 'wbe' and –_

"Gordon!" the doctor let out a gasp of surprise as he saw the name, "But this can't mean—"

He looked up at Sherlock in time to see his eyes give a meaningful glint.

"Oh yes. That prisoner— Bailey was his name—came from this place. You heard Chandler awhile ago he said there was a decrease of inmates and one of them got a sentence down. That's our late prisoner. He was killed on Category C prison after they transferred him from here (Category A) and no doubt this has something to do with that Gordon. How else will he know the warden's name if he's not from this place?"

"But what's that mean—are you telling me you went here to solve a murder case? What happened to the weapon? Does this case have something to do with the bio weapon?"

"Yes, yes the weapon." Sherlock turned to the wall as if seeing the same pattern sketched there with palms pressed together and talking again—more to himself. "It's the most brilliant case I've had with the most number of participants and threads—oh I love this thread—this prison. The game, the game is here John and yes we are participating actively."

"Hang on!" John stepped his foot down impatiently, " _I don't understand! What has this got to do with this paper!?"_

"I gave you all the clues, didn't you get it?" Sherlock turned to him rather impatiently as well and saw the doctor give him a dead stare look of reproach. "Oh John, use your imagination."

He grabbed the paper and started pointing out his clues—

"Everything started from here—"

" _Everything started with the bio weapon!"_ John cut him off that made the detective cry out—

"Oh just listen—look haven't you ever thought about why a chemist would bring a biochemical weapon all the way from America here in United Kingdom?"

"Of course!" John heatedly answered back, "He's a terrorist!"

"Yes, that but _why must he bring it inside a prison? And Whitemoor to be exact?"_

"That's something you haven't told me! _Why are you in Whitemoor?"_

"Obvious! The target is _here!"_

John stopped, and then gave a swallow. "You mean to tell me the terrorists are targeting _other terrorists?_ Because this place, you know it Sherlock—Whitemoor is a prison for terrorists. Unless then... our attackers are not _terrorists."_

"Not... quite." He answered.

"So then how did you know? That this is the right place? There are plenty of other places out there they can attack—cities, churches, concerts, the palace... why here?"

The detective resumed his calm demeanour as he pressed his hands together.

"KHD code, John. It was written on the bio weapon's container."

The doctor's mind whirled as the last message sunk so deep that made him froze—

"The weapon's container? You _have it!?"_

"No, I don't have it. _You do."_

Now John stood there, gaping at Sherlock with expression unmoved. And then he breathed. How long has it been since he breathed his last? He couldn't remember. He was too numb.

It took time for his brain cells to move again.

"I have it?" he asked so slowly and carefully, making sure that his eyes were transfixed at his friend, "How could I have it?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkled.

" _Cluedo."_ He turned around to face the wall, leaving John staring after him with large eyes.

"You put the bio weapon inside the Cluedo box without telling me?" his tone was sharp.

"Can't risk you acting strange now on your way out, can I?" Sherlock answered back, "better for you to know nothing."

" _Know nothing!?"_ Now John's voice was so high and full of bitterness. " _You didn't tell me I was carrying a deadly material and let me out in public—you let me carry it outside—Christ I could have killed people!"_ He was pacing the room in his anger, wanting nothing but to let it all out—he even thought of punching the detective but he couldn't bring himself to do it—not after seeing his friend beaten up days before. But he just thought Sherlock deserves one _from him._

Sherlock had turned to him this time knowing well enough the emotional range of John's rage he's accustomed to.

"I knew it was safe without telling you. You did say you will 'keep it as far as possible from reach'. Hide it. That's what you'll do." He gave John a strange look before continuing, "Unless... you didn't? Where is it now?"

There was a ring of alarm in his voice that John actually felt inclined to lie to him—tell him he threw it away on Thames or left it in a trash can just to get back to him. Because what Sherlock did was _dangerous._ Because Sherlock deserves to feel what _he felt._ What if he left it with Mary and their baby? What if he asked Mrs. Hudson to keep it and she accidentally threw it away? There were so many things that could have gone wrong with Sherlock's unkind act.

"I gave it to Mycroft." John breathed finally and saw ease went back in Sherlock's eyes. "Aren't you worried about your brother?"

"Mycroft hates Cluedo," Sherlock answered back, "but he wouldn't throw it away if he's realized it came from me. I suppose your conversation went down on how I asked for it and you told him how I wasn't looking for the weapon anymore. Even if you didn't directly give it to him he'd realize it and would have eventually asked for the box. I know you would report to him. You know Mycroft. He's already aware what's inside."

"How—?" but John decided to drop it and shook his head. He remembered the way Mycroft eyed the box when he told the older Holmes that Sherlock was not concerned with the weapon anymore. He _knew_ what was inside. But why didn't Mycroft tell him...?

"You and your brother playing me by the palm of your hands." He breathed finally.

Sherlock shot him a quick look and frowned.

"John, you know my methods—"

"I do. And it's unforgivable sometimes."

"You know I am unforgivable." The detective responded. "But you still forgive me."

"Yeah I do," John shook his head and cleared his throat. "Don't know why though."

Sherlock pressed his lips closed and the two stayed quiet for a moment. The detective then turned his back and eyed the wall again, leaving the doctor staring at him.

The next thing, John had walked out and had locked the door.

* * *

He washed his face in the officer's washroom after a few minutes of wandering around the vicinity. Cool water was good to his warm face. Too warm. Be it Sherlock's negligence to his friend's well being or the man's nature to keep everything in secret, John knew the detective didn't mean it by heart.

But that's just the thing, sometimes with Sherlock. He is not moved by heart. Especially if it's a case. Like a hound after a scent, he is driven not by helping others but by simply catching his prey. Come the people later.

John closed his eyes. No. That's not true.

That's just Sherlock being Sherlock and he, John being John. But he was not angry because the man kept him in the dark. He wasn't angry because of not being told of the bio weapon inside the box or being in danger. It was all a calculated move from his friend and nothing to bear grudge about. No...

He was angry mostly to himself for not _believing_ in Sherlock. He should have trusted the detective more. He wouldn't give up looking for the weapon if _he didn't already have it._ Should have known better. John shook his head.

Wiping his face with the nearest towel, John Watson stood watching his reflection for awhile. Then with a new vow to never doubt his friend again, he went out of the wash room and headed back to Sherlock's cell.

Only to meet two officers walking toward his way. He eyed them cautiously and stopped when they did.

"You're the new recruit, eh?" said one whom John guessed to be in his late 30's. The name 'Bradwell' was tagged on his plate. He was a large beefy man with double chins and bald head while his companion was his exact opposite, tall and lanky with dull grey eyes under his dark locks with his name plate 'Coy' on his chest.

"Yeah, Watson... and not as new as you think." John pressed his lips closed with scrutinizing eyes at the two.

"Well, we've get hard times with new recruits," Bradwell continued, "it's good to know they can still get people with experience around this lot. You know what I mean."

"Yeah. This place is everything like in prison camps... we've kept plenty of freshly captured terrorists there few times on my count."

"These terrorists just never get done with their stuff be it here in prison or out." Coy quietly said but John was surprised by how meaningful his eyes had become, "Let them out of your sight for a sec and they'll be plotting their next kill on the spot. It's hard to understand them."

"As hard as they try not to understand anything." Bradwell nodded, "My bad. But they never try. All secluded in their own beliefs and be it with the world. Mind you, Watson, we're not supposed to be talkin bad about their lot. Muslims. They get pretty sensitive when it comes to their faith."

"Not thinking it's not their faith we're after but their behaviour." Coy clicked his tongue. "Other Muslims are sick with them, you know?"

"Well, they're paying for it here now, aren't they?" John said quite simply as he frowned at the two, then remembering Sherlock's instructions, he added, "And maybe not all of them is bad, I mean, what if they are wrongfully accused?"

"Not this lot," the beefy man shook his head with his chins bouncing, "Nah, all of them are guilty. Their names are all wanted."

"Except that bloke, Bailey?" Coy went on with a frown, "he's got a sentenced down, didn't he?"

John's ears perked up.

"Bailey?" he repeated with an off air tone, "that bloke who killed himself in his cell? I heard about it all hush hush?"

"Yeah, well he's stayed around in this area you really get your head off. Have you been to his cell, Coy? It's all graffiti and stuff there nobody cleaned it yet we don't have that much staff."

"W-where's this cell of his?" John could barely contain himself.

The next minute he was striding toward the place where he was pointed to go. Looking at the board signs on the walls, it was easy to find the room cells and numbers. Going round and turning left to right and finally along the long lines of rooms and long walls, John was quick to see 210 for it was what he was looking for. He immediately jumped toward the door and thumps his head on the prison door's aperture—it was dark.

John only had to grab his flashlight attached to his belt and click it forward.

His eyes widened at what he saw.

* * *

Running out of his breath again but minding the presence of CCTV cameras, John Watson strode out towards the familiar corridor of where Sherlock's cell was. He had been gone for almost an hour which means he had locked up his friend _for almost an hour_ and was getting uneasy about the fact. Only when he saw the door number did he let out his breath and called quietly—

"Sherlock!"

He rummaged for the keys but then stopped dead when he realized something—

The door was unlocked.

Grabbing the handle, the now jail officer threw the door open wide and entered it only to find it empty. He circled around and went to the bathroom but there was no sign of Sherlock except the paper and pen he used to write down left forgotten by the small table.

John halted his breath—and then dashed out in search for his friend.

 _Who would open the door? Who else could have gotten the key? It's not possible for Sherlock to have moved himself out—the door was solid and the slit too small—what more, he was sure he closed it from the outside. Who could have taken Sherlock Holmes?_

Distracted, the doctor turned left and right to wherever his feet would take him. Whitemoor Prison was large enough for someone to get lost and dangerous even to those who do not know the way. Added with the number of highly dangerous profiled people stacked in it—

The idea sent John to hasten his steps with the whole wing A looking like a large maze for him.

He then saw another guard walking by— but then decided against raising an alarm in case it was Sherlock who let himself out by himself. At the same time it would not sound good for one new as him to lose his prisoner in the span of an hour—he'd be sent out of commission! And being out of jail was out of the option for him—not if he wants to help Sherlock. That is— _if he ever finds Sherlock._ He berated himself for leaving the man in the first place.

Turning on another corner, he suddenly noticed some foreign prisoners whispering to one another and then running far back at the corner of another archway. John knew better than to dismiss the act. Running after their steps, he followed the inmates who were joined by others along the corridor that lead to what appeared to be a passage going down. John hurried after them and then saw the sign that read 'gym' where he could hear voices coming from the inside. He distinctly saw more people entering the room and had just stopped by the doorway when he saw Sherlock's head amidst five to ten people who seemed to be ganging against him—

"OI!" John shouted at the top of his voice as he ran toward the middle of the group and in a flash was in front of Sherlock, "What are you doing? Get away from him."

The group composed of mostly foreign prisoners all eyed him warily, with some haughtily; they all surveyed the appearance of an officer with abhorrence, it seemed.

John stared back at them and then turned to Sherlock who was behind him with his handcuff still on.

"How'd _you get out?"_ he said those words with somewhat annoyance and relief in his voice. "You're supposed to stay with me!"

The detective looked at him and frowned.

"You're the one who disappeared—"

"Yeah, but I closed the door—"

"Unlikely you did otherwise I wouldn't have been able to walk around looking for—"

"Someone you know? Sherlock Holmes?"

John and Sherlock stopped talking when this heavy voiced person spoke and that was when the doctor noticed that among the crowd, there was one man who was sitting on a bench. Looking down, he saw a man with dark eyes staring at him. A man who seemed to have lost a few pounds despite his stretched his skin—a picture of a man that John had once seen in one of his and Sherlock's cases—

And the doctor was just about to blurt out his name when the detective cut him—

"My warden, Officer Watson. Watson, meet Mr. Ricoletti."

John clearly remembers him no doubt. The man who was one of Interpol's top criminal caught years back. It was he and Sherlock who put him under this state but never did John realize he would see this very person here. Not that he ever came face to face with the man. Neither he nor Sherlock did. Greg Lestrade only gave them details and followed instructions from the consultant detective. Confrontation never happened. Capturing him for Sherlock was as easy as pie so John didn't have to worry about being recognized...

And that was when it dawned to him that in truth—this was the last place where Sherlock Holmes must stay for here were people that bore grudge against their captor.

"Warden?" Rocolleti answered absentmindedly as he looked away from John to Sherlock, "Well, I don't want no police's nose in this business. I better be off. Just mark my words, Mr. Holmes. _None of us are safe here."_

And like a passing air, the man stood up and went out, followed by the ten or so men quietly till there was no sign of them left.

"What was that about?" the doctor said with a concerned look after the door.

"Peter Ricoletti," Sherlock quietly said as the two of them stood side by side, "One of the world's notorious leaders... look at him now John... leading but a mere ten people."

"What did he want? Was that a threat?"

"No, it's the opposite." The two looked at each other, "He gave me a _warning_. Something's gonna happen."

"Why would he warn you, he's suppose to hate you."

" _Exactly."_ There was a knowing look on Sherlock's eyes that made John pressed his lips closed.

"But I told you I locked your door." He reasoned out again few moments as they find their way toward his cell number.

"Then somebody else opened it. I distinctly heard a key to lock."

"You didn't notice me leave—" they reached his door and the officer pushed it open again, "how long have you been out? Anyways, get _in._ With how people here are turning up and about I might just lock you in this room."

"And let _you_ solve the case? Ha!"

"Don't make me do it, Sherlock." John looked at him testily but noticed that the man was not looking his way. He was busy studying the piece of paper that was left by the small table. "What's the matter?"

He joined his friend just as Sherlock reached for the paper and handed it to him. John frowned at his quietness and looked at the piece of note they were brooding on an hour ago. Then his eyes widened for it was not the same writing they had left—it was an entirely different note and written on it were these words—

 _'YOU CANNOT STOP ME. SHERLOCK HOLMES.'_

* * *

 **~ TO BE CONTINUED~** **  
**

A/N: Rolling on for another one or two!

*Let's all believe in Sherlock.*

 **~Thanks for Reading~**


End file.
